Page 42 of This Darkness Mine

“That bad?”

“Yeah it’s . . . it’s pretty bad, Sasha.”

“The nurse said she’d be back in ten minutes to check my reaction to the pain meds,” I tell Mom.

“You had a reaction, all right,” Mom says, smiling a little. “I didn’t think you knew some of those words.”

“Oh . . . was it . . .” I try to remember, but those moments must be kept somewhere else, stored away for Shanna. “Was I bad?”

Mom waves away whatever potty mouth I grew while medicated. “It doesn’t matter, honey. You were out cold by the time the nurse got back. Dad and I were here, and that girl from the county . . .” She fades out, like someone popped a mute in her horn.

“The social worker,” I finish for her. “Amanda.”

“The medics called her in because they thought you . . .” She doesn’t finish, eyes searching my face like maybe I’ll volunteer a word that isn’t suicide, something much closer to the sane, well-adjusted daughter she thought she had.

I don’t say anything.

“We’ll get you a real therapist, honey. Someone older, with more experience.”

I think about Amanda and her ink-stained pants, the little sore in the corner of her mouth where she poked her tongue while she was thinking. Then I think of a lined face, a wood-paneled office with rubber plants and leather-bound books. A place where I’m not in charge and can’t outwit anyone.

“I want Amanda,” I say.

“But, Sasha, she’s barely an adult herself. She’s not qualified to—to—”

“To fix me?” Mom drops her gaze, her thumbnail sliding under mine as if I were still a child needing someone to clean them.

“I thought you believed me about Shanna,” I say, watching as she rolls a bit of dirt out from under the nail, a piece of our yard that I managed to bring with me here to this forever-lit, sterile place. “I don’t need fixing. There’s nothing wrong with me, Mom,” I say, my voice rising.

“Sasha, please,” Mom shushes, glancing toward the door. “If the nurses think I’m upsetting you they won’t let me stay.”

“She’s here, Mom,” I say, pulling my hand away from her and reaching for the heart monitor. “I’ll show you.”

I find the time stamp, figure out the controls and scroll backward to where I was talking with Amanda.

“There,” I say, stabbing a finger at the blip on the screen, a valley out of concert with the rest of the terrain. “Shanna’s right there.”

Mom takes a deep breath, eyes closed. “No, honey,” she says finally, letting the words out with the exhale. “The doctor said it’s called dilated cardiomyopathy.”