“Sorry, honey. All done.” She clicks off the light and straightens up. I scoot away from her and look around. I’m in a curtained-off room in a hospital. Maybe the ER? I hear lots of talking. A baby’s crying somewhere, and somebody else is asking for water. Too many people. Too close. My arms start to itch, and I scratch at them under the blanket.
“Where’s my mom?”
The doctor, Dr. Janson, her name tag reads, looks away, and I follow her eyes to someone I hadn’t noticed sitting in a chair in the corner. It’s a woman in a suit jacket and skirt. She looks like a lawyer-banker-school-librarian. She’s holding a folder.
Dr. Janson doesn’t answer my question. Instead, she looks back at me and says, “It looks like you’ve got a mild concussion from the accident. That’s a nasty bump on your head. We’ll need to keep you for observation. We’re working on getting you a room up in pediatrics. But it might be a bit. It’s a busy night with the snow.” She pats my knee and I flinch. I see the woman in the suit see it. “Can I get you something to eat? Juice? Crackers?”
I shake my head. I can’t spend the night here in this loud, too-bright place. I’ve never slept anywhere without my mom. I turn to the suited lady. “When can I see my mom?”
She stands and walks over. I get a better look at her. She’s older than I thought, with silver running through her dark hair. I see a wedding ring. A nice old married lady has come to talk to me. This can’t be good.
“That’s what I’m here to see you about, Louise.”
“Lou.”
“Lou. You go by Lou. That’s good. Thank you for telling me. My name is Maria, and I’m with the Placer County Child Protective Service. It’s nice to meet you.”
Well, it’s not nice to meet you, I think.
CPS. This is exactly what we’ve been running from, and now they’re here, the government, sitting in my hospital room, and my mom is off somewhere, maybe even in jail, and it’s all my fault. I pinch my elbows under the covers until the tears that were about to fall shrivel back up, and I close my eyes. I play the game I used to play when I was little. If I can’t see them, then they can’t see me.
“Lou, you’re old enough to understand the process, so I’ll walk you through it, but you need to know you’re not alone. You are safe here, and we will make sure you are well taken care of. Okay?”
I open my eyes. But I don’t answer.
“Your mom is talking with the members of the hospital staff as well as the police officer, Officer Ramos, who found you on the scene.”
On the scene. It sounds so criminal, when all I was trying to do was pick up my mother from work.
“We want to know why you were driving underage, why you were left alone, and why, according to our records, she hasn’t enrolled you in any of the area schools.”
I start to explain. “We’ve only been here a few months, and—” But Maria cuts me off.
“And why you are significantly underweight and your blood panel indicates iron levels low enough to border on anemia. Lou, we often see this in kids who live below the poverty line.”
She says it like there’s an actual line we just happened to trip over. I look at her calves sticking out below her sensible skirt. They are thick and strong. She’s probably never had to worry about her next meal. She knows nothing about our lives. She doesn’t know that Mom always gives me the thickest blanket, the extra scoop of peanut butter, the first turn in the camp showers.
I remember something from health class in fourth grade. “It’s because I’m a vegetarian, the iron stuff, not because we’re poor,” I say. She just nods and writes something down. I don’t think it’s a get-out-of-jail-free card. My head is getting heavy like a water balloon, and the thoughts are sloshing around without settling. I lie back on the pillow and close my eyes again. This is not happening. She is not here. I am in my sleeping bag in the truck. We are going to LA. Mom will shake me awake any second.
“I’ll give you some peace and quiet now,” Maria whispers. “But I’ll be right outside if you need me.” I feel her stand to leave. “Get some rest, Lou. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“And then I’ll see my mom,” I say. She doesn’t respond. When I look up, she’s already gone.
* * *
The night is a weird mash-up of tiny bits of sleep and bad dreams. They move me at around three a.m. when a room finally opens up on the pediatric floor. There are sunshines on the floors and a picture of a cow jumping over the moon on my wall. The nurses come in every hour to aim a light at my eyes and ask me questions like what season comes after winter and can I touch the tips of my index fingers together. There’s an ice machine just outside my room. I cringe every time I hear the whirring that comes right before the thunk-thunk-thunk of the ice. Something about that sound feels like a knife scraping across a bare plate. It’s terrible. And exhausting. Who needs that much ice at 4:08, 4:36, 5:13 in the morning? I can’t sleep anyway, without Mom. My head hurts too much to cry.
By the time the door swings open at seven a.m. and Dr. Janson comes in with Maria and a new nurse, I feel weak and shivery in a way that’s worse than sitting in the snow with my head banged up.
“How are we feeling this morning?” Dr. Janson says with a hand on the bed rail, again too close to my hand.
“I’m okay.” Where’s my mom? I want to ask, but these people make me feel so small, I can’t find any words that aren’t answers to their questions.
“No dizziness? The nausea has gone away?”
I nod.
“Well, let’s get you on your feet for a minute and check that balance. You’ve got a sizeable bump up there, and I want to make sure you’re on the mend before we discharge you.”
I slip out of the bed, feeling naked in the hospital gown. It’s a child’s size small but hangs off my bony shoulders and billows out in the back like a cape. The nurse reaches out a hand to steady me, but I dodge it and grip the bed rail. There’ve been way too many hands on me lately.
“Okay, Louise,” Dr. Janson says. “Feet together and arms out to your sides. A little higher.”
She reaches out and lifts my right wrist to shoulder height, but she does it with her pen, which is okay. I hold the position until my shoulders burn and arms shake. Which isn’t very long.
“Okay, that’s enough.” She turns to the nurse. “I think we’re good to discharge tomorrow if the night goes well. That is”—she turns to Maria—“if you have everything you need from us in regards to placement?”
Maria nods. My stomach clenches. It’s like a hunger pang, but I’m hollowed out by fear. What does she mean by “placement”? Are they trying to find a place for me and Mom to stay tonight? Did I total the truck? I climb back in bed and tuck my knees up under my chin. Maria and I watch the doctor and nurse leave.
“Is my mom outside?”
Maria pulls up a chair. She is in a different suit this time, a tan pantsuit with black stripes. She looks like someone from Law & Order.
“Lou. It’s going to be a little bit before you see your mom.”