herself before the words come. In the same way my own mother, the best ones, just know how you need to be loved at any given moment, Sandra gifts me with a silence instead. She covers me in grace and understanding. I watch her shift in her seat and let out a long, quivery sigh, like it’s all she can do to keep herself from jumping into my skin and carrying the pain for me.
“Did you remember to bring your films?” she chirps.
I did. I pat my bag. A fat manila envelope pokes out of the zipper pocket. Inside is every single image ever taken of my spine. Sandra has a doctor for me, just like everybody else does. She knows it might not work, but it’s all set up and she’ll pay for it, so it can’t hurt. Trying to fix me is the only way anyone knows to love me right now. Letting them try is the only way I know to love them back.
The hospital is a stack of gray boxes in the middle of the city. We arrive early—Jack, Sandra, and me—after an evening of Texas brisket and watching lightning bugs fly in figure eights over the pool. My heart and backbone throb, kissing each other on the inside of my body as we skulk around the entryway and wait, white-coated strangers breezing past us like we’re shrubs. My body remembers when it sees this place and I become allergic again, my throat itches and my hands sweat, and my breath is taken from me. Jack has walked me through dozens of these doorways before; his hand clutches mine and doesn’t leave. It’s routine, it’s what we know, and all I need to do is hang on for thirty minutes.
The exam room is about the size of a changing stall at the Gap. The doctor stares at my films for a long time. He’s tall, with a big mop of pigeon-colored hair, and stands with his hands on his hips like he’s Christy Turlington.
“What’s this?” he asks, squinting behind his glasses.
“My black spot.”
That’s what I call it. Nobody’s given it a different name. He raises his eyebrows at the dark cloud at the base of my skull on all my films. I explain it to him the way it’s been explained to me, nothing to be concerned about, it’s just the wire interacting with the machine. He sighs and clicks his tongue.
“I can’t help you properly until I find out what’s underneath it.”
He orders a set of X-rays that cost $50 and a different type of imaging that won’t interact with the wire in my neck. I shake so hard when the tech injects dye into my veins that Sandra offers to buy me six months of PTSD therapy. It sounds like the most useful treatment anybody has suggested so far.
* * *
The call comes two days after my appointment and I let it go to voice mail. Jack and I are eating tacos together in Austin because it’s easy to fall back in love with someone when you’re eating tacos with them. The tacos are working, we’re happy. The fentanyl patch is working too—it’s strong. I can dance a little, snatch a glimpse of who Jack and I used to be together. I remember how hilarious he is and he remembers how much fun it is to be out at night with me.
I hand the phone to Jack to check the message while I get up to pee. He grabs my arm to stop me.
“Ruthie, this is Dr. Mills. You need to get back to Houston immediately.”
We find out that the wire holding my spine together is poking into my brain stem. His voice is urgent. He’s never seen this before.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Jack sputters.
We leave our half-eaten tacos and everything else behind.
Back at Jack’s brother’s house just outside of town where we’re staying, everybody panics, scurrying around, looking for something to do. Jack calls my parents; his brother John calls the insurance company; his wife, Lena, calls Sandra. I retreat, but Orange County isn’t far enough away this time. I go upstairs and settle into the blinding pink of our five-year-old niece’s bedroom. There are heaps of faded teddy bears, a neon-rainbow gymnastics outfit, and an owl decal the size of a Saint Bernard. I remember the joy of five and sit inside it for a moment, insulating myself with good memories for the rest of the evening. The next day,