works quickly and after a minute I grab around for a hand and am helped into the bathroom, my stomach creaking like an old wooden floor. Afterward I lie on the hospital bed, staring up at an ugly drop ceiling, realizing with sad resignation that, once again, I have no idea what happened the night before.
I must’ve fallen asleep because when I wake, Tessa’s sitting next to the bed, smiling, and she leans forward and coos, “Hey, look who’s up!” Softly, the tone you reserve for an infant.
“What happened?” My voice is still hoarse, like I’ve spent the night screaming.
She rests her hand on my arm. “You’re okay, that’s the important part.”
I squint. “Why is your arm like that?” It’s in a splint, midnight blue.
“I’m fine. More important, how are you feeling?”
I turn away and take in the ceiling again, the long rows of fluorescent lights. “I guess I mostly feel weak,” I tell her. “I don’t know what happened.” A thought blooms: “They said they pumped my stomach?”
She smiles again and rubs my arm. “You’re safe now, that’s what’s important,” she says again.
I blink at her. “What were they pumping? What happened?”
“You don’t remember anything?”
“No, I remember waking up here and they were fucking pumping my stomach.” Distress is roiling again, a pot of water on the stove.
“It’s okay, don’t get upset. Here, I’ll get the nurse.” She stands and finds a button, ignoring my protests. It’s an intercom; a crackly voice says someone will arrive shortly. She plops back into her seat.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she prompts.
“Not much,” I say. “I’m really confused. I remember being at home and feeling upset and sitting on my bed. Then not much else.” I have the feeling something bad happened, something very bad. I don’t recall pulling out the secret bottle of whiskey. Did I start drinking?
“So you don’t remember the antidepressants?” she asks, her eyes wide and blue.
I frown again. “I can’t remember if I took my Wellbutrin last night,” I say finally. This is hurting my throat, all this talking. “Why, what happened?”
“I mean, you’d just figured out—”
A doctor waltzes into the room, presumably a doctor with his white coat and cool, incurious eyes.
“I’m glad to see you’re awake,” he says, giving us both clammy handshakes. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay, I guess. My throat hurts. And my stomach.” And strangely, something deep under my hip joints, little triangles of tender pain.
He nods, still towering over me. “Your stats all look good.”
“She doesn’t remember anything,” Tessa calls out. “From last night.”
He nods again. “Miss Bach, you’ll be scheduled for a psychiatric evaluation. I can get you a wheelchair if you’re unable to walk.”
I shake my head. “I really just want to go home. Can’t Tessa take me home?”
“We can’t discharge you until you’ve had a psychiatric evaluation.”
“Because I can’t remember anything?” I gasp. “Do they think I have a brain tumor or something? And it’s pushing on my…my hippocampus?” The memory center. I’m pleased with myself for remembering its name. Seems to bode well for my neurological health.
He glances at Tessa, then back at me. “No, we don’t have any reason to believe you have a brain tumor. Do you have any interest in eating or drinking? You’re well hydrated, but…”
I glance at the IV snaking into my arm. “I’m not really hungry, no.”
“When your appetite returns, just stick with bland stuff. Toast, crackers, tea. Okay?” I nod, but it’s Tessa who says okay.
“You’re in from the OR, right?” he finally says, like he’s been trying to work something out, and Tessa responds, as if they’re speaking their own language: “Yeah, but I was already discharged, I’m fine.”
“Would you like to speak to the psychiatrist as well?”
“I probably should, yeah.” Her cheeks turn pink. “Are they gonna tell her…what happened?”
“Most likely.” He grabs at his hip, like his phone has just buzzed. “Someone will be in shortly.” And with that, he’s gone.
We let the silence swell for a few seconds.
“Tessa, what’s happening?”
“I don’t want you to freak out. Okay? Everything’s fine, I need you to know that.”
“I’m calm. I’m, like, half dead, I don’t even have the energy to get worked up. But I need you to tell me what the fuck is going on.”
She chews on her lower lip, then drags her chair right up next to me.
“I came by your place last night,” she says, “just to check on you. After I called you about the IP address from that email from…from Edie’s