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“No,” I say. “I don’t care.”
—
A few hours later, another nurse arrives. She says, “I need you to sit up now and drink this. Take it slow.”
She presses a button, raising the top half of the hospital bed. Thick liquid in a tumbler. Chalky. It tastes chalky and I gag.
“Careful,” she says.
“My skin,” I say. “I’m so cold. And my stomach feels like someone punched me.”
She takes the tumbler from me, wipes my mouth gently, avoiding the bad part of my face.
“Well,” she says. “You still have a lot of alcohol in your system. You depressed your nervous system. Think of it as your body trying to get rid of the bad stuff.”
My brain says:Like that will ever happen.
I finish the chalky drink.
—
I’m rolled over in bed, staring out the window, when I hear the door open. Maybe the nurse is here to give me more chalky drink or to empty the bag on my leg. A tube is going up inside of me. That’s how I pee, though I don’t think there’s very much. I don’t remember them putting it inside me. They took the plastic thing out of my nose, but it’s still hard to breathe. Slow.
I turn over. It’s not a nurse.
Blond ponytail. Jeans. Clipboard. Green T-shirt.
“Hey, Isabella.” She drags a chair from the corner of the room closer to my bed and sits down. “I’m Tracy.”
“Are you another nurse?” I ask. “And it’s Bella.”
“I’m not a nurse, Bella.” She smiles. “I’m a counselor. I’m here to check on you. Ask you some questions. I met your parents. They’re really nice.”
“I don’t think that was my parents, then.”
She laughs. “Pretty sure it was. They’re really worried about you.”
I don’t say anything.
“So, I’m going to just talk to you, and have you fill out a questionnaire. Okay?”
“Why?”
She tilts her head. “Just to evaluate where you’re at. Like, emotionally.”
“Why?” I stare at her suspiciously. Evaluate me emotionally? There are kids at school who get sent off for “emotional issues.” Like cutting, or hitting, or just blanking the world the hell out, I guess. Grippy socks. That’s what they call the places they go.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I had a bad night. I don’t need to go to grippy socks. Or to do your stupid test.”
“Grippy socks,” she murmurs. “Hah. Interesting. That’s not quite where I’m from, but close. I work at a place here in Tucson. Well, on the outskirts. Your parents wanted me to come in and talk to you.”
“I don’t feel like talking. I don’t care about whatever place you’re from. Things just went a little haywire for me, but it’s over. It’s fine. It was just a bad night. You can go now.”
She leans forward. “Bella, you came here with acute alcohol poisoning, which is a lot more than just a ‘bad night,’ and you could have died, so my job is to kind of figure out what’s going on. Can you at least let me do that?”
“What happens if I don’t?” In my mind,acute alcohol poisoningis rolling around, along withyou could have died.I shiver at the thought, but I mean, obviously I didnotdie, so whoever this person is, she is unnecessary.
Tracy looks at me steadily. “I would ask you, instead, what are you so afraid of that you can’t answer a few questions?”
