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Jessica

The days all run together in here. I have no idea if this is my third day or my sixth. I’m starting to crave the medicine, wanting the fog of white and sleep that it creates.

They gave me a puzzle. It’s a giant photo of a carnival, and I’m almost done with the Ferris wheel that takes up the top-right half of the board.

It’s two thousand pieces. I saw this video online once of competitive puzzle competitions, and I’ve tried to time myself to see how long it takes me to do ten pieces, but I’m literally counting seconds in my head and I suck at keeping track of it.

The nurse brought it to me, along with a sudoku workbook.

She never talks to me; she typically opens a window that’s in the wall and slides a tray in with food or items like this at random times.

I’m normally asleep when she comes by, but sometimes I’ve been awake, and when I try to talk to her, she ignores me.

She’s only come inside the room a few times, typically to change my IV bag or empty my trash.

I asked her for tampons and to take me to the bathroom, but she ignored me.

Later, she did put tampons, extra diapers, and a bottle of Midol on my tray, but all I want is a nod, a grunt—anything to acknowledge that I exist, that I am still a person underneath these scrubs.

There is something deconstructing about being ignored.

It’s proof that you’re not worthy enough to be spoken to or acknowledged.

I took a class in college on social welfare my freshman year, and one of the things we talked about was basic human rights.

We separated into small groups and made a list of what we thought basic human rights included.

My group had almost thirty items, and we had a pretty heated debate about some of them, like cell phones and internet access.

The root of our baseline was what a homeless person deserved to be provided by their government.

Acknowledgment wasn’t even a consideration for the list. Conversation and interaction with others—also a noncandidate.

A toilet was, but now that I’ve had three bowel movements and spent hours in a urine-soaked diaper, I can confidently say that if given the choice for a toilet or a conversation with someone other than Dr. Joe, I’d go with the conversation.

It wouldn’t even have to be a long discussion. Just something. Is it raining outside? How many people are at this place? Can I get group time with others? Do you guys have anything here to eat other than protein shakes and energy bars?

That’s my menu, by the way. My trays contain three protein shakes and four energy bars. Oh, and a piece of fruit. I’ve gotten a banana, orange, and an apple so far. My fingers are crossed for another orange. The last was a big juicy navel that I took my time eating.

There’s a knock on the door. It cracks a little and Dr. Joe sticks his head in. “Is it a good time?”

“Oh, no, I’m very busy right now,” I drawl, putting down a four-sided piece that has a funnel cake on it. “Hot social calendar. Come back in three hours, after everyone leaves.”

He steps in and smiles. “Humor. That’s good.

” Picking up my chart, he pulls the pen out from the top of it and glances over the page, as if he needs a refresher on who I am and why I am in here.

The quick perusal irritates me, because how many of his patients killed their mother?

I have to be an anomaly. If I’m not—if there’s dozens of us—then there’s something in LA’s drinking water.

“How are you feeling?” He pulls one of the plastic chairs away from the table and takes a seat next to me. His knee bumps mine, and I don’t move away.

“Not great. I’m on my period. Sorry, it smells like blood in here.” Super smooth on my part.

He shrugs. “I don’t smell anything, but please remind me; I’ll take out your trash when I leave.”

“I’d really love to use the bathroom. And take another shower.”

“We can move you to a different room, one with a shower and toilet, once you pass the cognitive test.” He writes something down on his paper, as if he hasn’t just said something big and important.

“What do you mean? What cognitive test?”

He looks back at me. “Do you remember what happened with your mother?”

“I—I ... Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re currently considered a high-risk patient.

Both to yourself and to our staff. It’s why you’re sequestered and on a no-points restriction.

” At my confused look, he tucks the pen into the clipboard’s holder and explains.

“Nothing sharp. No pens or pencils. Forks, knives. A typical toilet has enough water that you could drown yourself in it. There’s no electrical outlets, light bulbs you could break, long cords or ropes in here. This is one of our soft rooms.”

All this sounds like it’s for someone else.

I wasn’t in danger of killing myself or anyone.

But they don’t know that. They think I killed my mom, which I absolutely didn’t.

Couldn’t have. I glance down at my wrists, which still hold the ugly red scars.

How deep did I dig that razor? How close did I come to dying?

“Once you remember the details, can talk through those with me, with the police, then we can determine if you are in a more stable emotional state and able to be trusted with more freedoms. That’s the cognitive test.”

So, once I remember killing my mom, I get to have stuff.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t have.

“Let’s start from the top. What’s your name?” He tosses it out like he hasn’t asked me that a dozen times, but suddenly I straighten, my body going rigid, because my brain is serving it up, right on the tip of my tongue like it’s been there the entire time.

“Jessica,” I say.

And just like that, as if the name unlocks something in my head, everything floods back.