Chapter 3
Dr. Patel washed her hands at the sink and snapped on gloves. The warm water ran and I listened to it because it was steadier than the voices.
"Lily, I'm going to look at your arms and legs, okay? Tell me if anything stings," she said. She turned my arm gently. The paint was thickest on my left forearm — purple over red — and tiny silver glitter was embedded near the elbow where I'd scraped against the cabinet edge. Under it my skin was pink but not blistered.
Mom stood right beside the bed, her sage green overshirt now with two clear handprints on the sleeve. She kept touching my hair, then stopping herself so the doctor could work.
"When did this happen?" Dr. Patel asked without looking up.
Grandma answered from the chair by the window. "About nine thirty this morning. I heard a crash, came out, she was on the kitchen floor. Paint everywhere. I called 911 because she wouldn't stop crying and the glitter was in her hair."
"Nine thirty," Mom repeated, and her voice caught. "I left for my shift at seven. I thought —" She stopped and swallowed. "We had the paints on the top shelf."
The nurse with the star scrubs brought warm washcloths and a basin. She started with my hands, dabbing, not scrubbing. The water turned faintly purple. She worked slowly and I watched the orange paint loosen around my nails.
"This kind looks like washable tempera, but the glitter glue has a different base," the nurse said. "Some of these craft glitters have plastic and extra adhesive. If it gets in eyes or lungs —"
"It wasn't supposed to be out," Mom said quickly. "We bought it for her birthday project next week. It was still boxed."
Dr. Patel exchanged a look with the nurse and peeled off her gloves. "We'll do a quick chest listen, check eyes, and send the sample down to see exactly what's in it. Washable doesn't always mean non-toxic if it's an older product or mixed."
Grandma leaned forward. "I bought it at the dollar store by the highway. It was cheap. Lily liked the colors."
Mom closed her eyes for a second. I saw her breathing change. She didn't yell. She just said, very quietly, "Mom."
The room went still except for the monitor beeping. I picked at a piece of dried green paint on my knee and felt Mom's hand cover mine, stopping me.
Dr. Patel touched Mom's arm. "You're doing the right thing being here and being honest. Kids reach. Kids spill. What matters now is we know what she touched so we can treat any irritation. And we document it."
She wrote something on the chart and said a social worker would stop by — standard when a child comes in with a household product exposure, nothing to be scared about. Mom nodded but her hand tightened around mine.
The nurse finished cleaning my right hand. Under the paint my skin was clean and a little raw. She wrapped a light bandage around the scrape on my elbow where the glitter had stuck, and she put the used washcloths into a bag.
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"Want to hold your toy?" she asked me, and handed me the plush with the yellow foot after wiping it off. I hugged it and left a faint yellow-pink smudge on its belly and started to cry again, quietly this time.
Mom lifted me just enough to rest my head against her shoulder, paint and all, and whispered, "I've got you, I've got you," while Grandma watched from the window, her hands folded tight, and the bag of glitter sat sealed on the counter waiting to be taken down the hall.
