Dr. Perez lets the nurse bandage my wrists while he turns his attention to Edie’s belly. “Has she been up and about yet?”
“Not yet.”
Maybe I’ll be ready to meet them next month or maybe next year or maybe never.
His hands and fingers are cold and he pokes and prods and digs around like he’s rearranging Edie’s guts. “Does that hurt?”
“Yes, sir. Hurts as all git-out.” Maybe I can pretend to be in a coma again. At least until Edie’s parents go away.
He gives me a strange look but keeps talking like I’m not here. “She feels impacted. Get her walking around and her bowels moving.” He straightens and turns to the nurse. “Order her a stool softener.”
Wait. What?
The nurse nods as she wraps tape around the gauze. “I’ll take out her catheter so she can use the bathroom.”
Edie has a catheter? In her—or my—private area?
“She hasn’t evacuated since she arrived.”
Evacuated? Does he mean poo? I think he means poo.
He snaps off his gloves and tosses them in the garbage. “She might need a Fleet.”
He’s not talking about the Seventh Fleet. He means the kind of Fleet that Mamaw Rose had in her bathroom. I’d holler hell no! but I’m supposed to have amnesia.
“The nurse will take out your IV and catheter.” He turns and finally talks to me directly. “We should have you in a new room shortly.” He pulls out his stupid penlight and shines it in my eyes for the millionth time. “Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“In what city?”
I don’t know if I’m supposed to remember anyone mentioning it, so I shrug.
“Do you know what you were doing at the Plaza?”
The Plaza? That’s the fanciest hotel in El Paso. I only know because I heard it on the news a year or two ago. I don’t have enough money to walk in the door, let alone book a room. “No, sir.”
He shuts off the penlight and shoves it in his pocket. “Tell me your name.”
I just point to the label on my plastic water pitcher because I don’t know if I’m supposed to say Edie or play dumb.
“Don’t you know?”
The only thing I know is that I don’t want to make Ingrid mad and get yanked up to the tulip garden again. I don’t want to make mistakes like King Tut or Joan of Arc, so I shake my head and give him a big, blank look. Then, quicker than a sneeze, a psychiatric doctor pays me a visit and asks all sorts of questions about the event or events that triggered my last self-harm episode. I’m assuming he means Edie’s suicide attempt.
“Are you depressed?”
I’m more confused than depressed, so I shrug again.
He types something into his electronic notebook and continues. “Did you self-harm out of anger or sadness or punishment for self-perceived wrongs?”
“What?”
He looks down and reads from his screen. “Did you self-harm to make yourself feel normal, distract yourself from your feelings, or to make ot
hers aware of your feelings?”
“I don’t remember.”