Chapter 9
The RN didn't ask what was wrong anymore. She asked where.
She leaned close and her badge pressed cold against rail. I felt her glove on my wrist, not holding me down this time, just steady. My breath rattled in cannula and fluorescent light buzzed overhead. She said, "You got sick at 313, honey? Blink yes."
I blinked yes. Hard. One blink. My two fingers still shook against blanket.
She said, "That place made your rash? Made you can't breathe?"
I blinked yes again. Eyes burned. Rash itched under gown where sleeves rubbed. I remembered carpet smell at 313, damp like old water, and window that never opened. I coughed last week and nobody opened it.
She held up one finger. "One for yes, two for no. You understand?"
I lifted one finger. Yes.
"Was it mold? Water? Something in air there?"
I lifted one finger. Then I hesitated. I didn't know word for it. But my chest felt heavy there and better when I left, until I got sicker anyway. She saw hesitation and said, "You don't know word, but your body hurt there. Yes?"
One finger. Yes.
Behind her, Navy man shifted near doors. His boots squeaked on tile. I flinched without meaning to. RN noticed. Her eyes cut to him then back to me.
She lowered voice. "Did someone tell you not to tell about 313?"
My throat closed. I lifted one finger. Yes. I looked past her at Navy man. He wasn't my dad. He was mom's friend who stayed at apartment when mom worked nights. He'd said, "Don't make stories, you get us all in trouble. You say 313, they think you crazy." His camo uniform today looked same as jacket he wore at apartment.
RN followed my look. She whispered, "Him? He told you not to tell?"
I lifted one finger. Then I changed to two fingers fast, then one again. Not only him. Mom told me too, but mom told me because she was scared of him.
Older woman behind bed made small sound. My grandma. Her cardigan bunched in her fists. She'd stood there whole time with my little cousin with braids. Grandma's face went gray.
Grandma said, "Stop. Stop asking her like that. She don't know."
RN said, without looking away from me, "Ma'am, she knows exactly."
Grandma's hands shook. She said, "We were here before. Three weeks ago. Same rash. Same cough. Doctor said viral. We didn't — we didn't say about apartment."
One of the doctors in white coats stepped forward. He still held white and blue medication box. He said, "Ma'am, prior visit not in chart. You didn't disclose housing conditions?"
Grandma stared at box. Tears ran. She said, "Her mom told me not to. Said landlord would evict. The man in uniform said he'd handle it. He said 313 just needed clean. We thought — we thought she was just sensitive."
My cousin with braids started crying quiet behind grandma. She'd slept on same floor with me at 313.
RN finally looked at doctor. She said, "You were about to give her what? In that box."
Doctor said, "Sedative plus steroid. For agitation. Protocol for delirium."
RN said, "She's not delirious. She's allergic. Look at rash. Look at lungs. She been breathing something at 313 for months. You sedate her, you silence only witness and you risk airway."
Second doctor frowned. He said, "We can't diagnose exposure without labs. Agitation protocol stands."
I lifted one finger again, hard. Then tapped my chest and then tapped blanket, then pointed at box and shook head. No. Don't give me that. My words wouldn't come right, voice raw from cannula, but I got out, "Don't... sleep me. Need... stay awake. Tell."
RN squeezed my hand. She said to doctors, "Check box label. Is that sedative safe with respiratory distress and suspected environmental exposure? Or you want chart to say you medicated child who was trying to report unsafe housing?"
Navy man spoke for first time. Loud. He said, "She's delirious, she doesn't know what she's doing. That apartment is fine. I checked it myself."
I stared at him. I lifted two fingers. No. Then one finger. Yes, you told me lie.
Grandma broke. She said to Navy man, "You said you fixed vent. You never fixed nothing. I've seen black stuff behind bed. I've smelled it. I told her mom and she told me keep quiet or we lose place. My grandbaby been sleeping on floor there since January."
Room went silent except monitor beep. EMERGENCY sign hummed red behind doors.
Doctor with box turned it over in hands and read label again. His jaw tightened. He didn't open it.
RN bent to me and whispered, "You warned us about 313. You did good. You still there? You scared to go back?"
May you like
I lifted one finger. Yes. I didn't want back to 313. I wanted to stay where air was clean and grandma stayed, not where Navy man controlled door.
She nodded and kept her hand on my wristband, keeping count with me.
