Chapter 1
I remembered the ceiling tiles first. White squares with tiny holes and a light that buzzed. My knees were pulled up under the blanket and my hands were sticky. Purple and red and green paint had dried on my arms in streaks, and when I tried to rub it off it just smeared more. My throat hurt from crying.
Mom was not in the room yet and that was wrong. She was always supposed to be right there when I woke up. The bed was too big and the blanket smelled like soap. A woman with gray hair stood near the doorway in a blue cardigan and she kept looking at me and then at the floor by the cabinets where glitter sparkled on the tile next to my plush toy with the yellow foot.
I was five and I knew that glitter didn't belong on a hospital floor.
That morning I'd been on the floor in our kitchen. It was maybe eight o'clock and the sun was coming through the window over the sink. Mom had left the art cabinet unlocked while she answered the phone. I remembered opening it because the new paint bottles were bright and I wanted to make something for her. The glitter tube slipped. That was the last thing before the cold tile and the crying and the ride where everyone talked fast.
My name is Lily and I was six in two weeks and that morning I learned how fast a room can get quiet when adults are scared.
I heard footsteps in the hall. Fast, uneven. The door pushed open and Mom came through with her sage green shirt half untucked and her hair coming loose. Her eyes found me and got wide. The older woman — my grandma — was right behind her.
"Mommy." My voice cracked and it was small. I reached my hand out and the paint on my fingers caught the light.
Mom crossed the room in three steps. She didn't look at Grandma. She leaned over the bed rail and put both hands around me, and I grabbed her sleeve with my painted hand and left a purple smear on the green fabric. She smelled like coffee and outside air.
"It was an accident. Stop. Don't touch her." Grandma's voice came from the doorway, sharp and low. She wasn't talking to me. She was talking to Mom, and her hand was up like she wanted Mom to wait.
Mom didn't wait. She pulled me up against her chest and I could feel her breathing hard. Grandma took a step closer and reached out toward us, and Mom turned her shoulder, holding me tighter. Her cheek pressed against my hair.
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"Hey!" Someone else — a nurse down the hall — called out, maybe because we were loud, maybe because Mom had pushed past.
Mom held me and stared over my head toward the floor where the glitter still shone by the cabinet. Her mouth was open but she didn't say anything yet. The door was still open and footsteps were coming closer.
