the waiting room. There was a central island with doctors and nurses in it, and all around the outer wall were beds, some of which were curtained off. A symphony of rhythmic beeps filled the space. An older man was on a bed directly in front of me with two elderly women, one on either side of him. One of the women was crying; the other was rocking slightly. I wondered what was wrong with him, and then one of the women turned slightly and saw me watching them. I looked away, embarrassed to have been caught spying.
Ms. Phillips led me around to the right of the island. When we got to an area where the curtains were closed, she stopped walking.
“She’s in here,” said Ms. Phillips. “Why don’t I come in with you?”
It wasn’t until she offered to stay with me that I realized how scared I was to see my mother alone, which was almost worse than anything else that had happened that day.
“She’ll probably be asleep,” said Ms. Phillips. “But if she isn’t, we’ll just stay a minute and then come on out. Her throat’s probably sore from when they pumped her stomach, so it will be hard for her to talk.”
I stepped through the curtain behind Ms. Phillips, picturing as I did what it meant to pump somebody’s stomach. My own stomach clenched in sympathy.
My mother was lying on the bed, propped up slightly on two pillows. They must have taken off her T-shirt, because she was in a hospital gown under some blankets. There was a hairnet over her hair, but a few strands had come out, and they were spread out over the pillow like my mom had put her finger in an electrical outlet. She was asleep, and I watched her chest rise up and down slowly. By the fourth breath I realized I was breathing with her, almost as if she couldn’t do it on her own.
Almost as if I was afraid she didn’t want to do it on her own.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Ms. Phillips put her hand on my shoulder. “We should go, honey.”
I nodded, my throat too thick to try to talk. My mom’s arms lay along her sides, and on the wrist nearest me I saw a hospital bracelet and a ring of dark blue fabric, almost like a ribbon but thicker and closed with what looked like Velcro. I looked at the other wrist, and there was one there also.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing at the blue fabric and clearing my throat. But even before Ms. Phillips answered me, I knew exactly what they were. They were restraints. My mother was literally tied to her bed.
Ms. Phillips put her hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. “Those are so she won’t hurt herself, honey.”
“Are they …” I took a breath, but taking deep breaths wasn’t enough to stop myself from crying anymore. “Are they going to leave them on?” I imagined what it would be like to wake up and find your hands tied to the bed, attempting to jerk them free and finding they were too tightly bound for you to get out of them. I imagined my mother screaming for someone to come get her, how with her wild hair and tied-up wrists she’d seem crazy to whoever answered her call.
But of course maybe she was crazy. That was the whole reason she was lying here in the first place.
“We should go,” Ms. Phillips said again, and this time I let her lead me out of the curtained area, back through the big room, and down the hall. It was a relief to have her guide my steps. I didn’t know where I was going, and I was crying too hard to see even if I did.
Ms. Phillips waited while I washed my face in the bathroom, then walked me through the second set of double doors. She pointed out my dad, who was at the opposite end of the room talking through a wall of Plexiglas to the man at the desk. I wanted to give Ms. Phillips a hug, but she reached out her hand, and so I shook it.
“Good luck, Juliet,” she said. “I know this is very hard. But we’ll figure out exactly what happened, and then your mom’s going to get whatever help she needs.” I thanked her, said good-bye, and headed over to my dad.
He was giving the man all of the information I’d been unable to provide, and I stood a few feet away from him and listened while he talked. My mom’s date of birth. Her social security number. Her primary care physician.
What else did my father know about my mother that I didn’t?
When he’d finished, he came to where I was standing. “Hi,” he said. He looked tired. Maybe not as tired as my mother, but way more tired than he had an hour ago.
“Why did you say that stuff about Mom?” I asked, my arms folded across my chest.
“Juliet, I know there are things we need to talk about, but”—he glanced around the crowded emergency room—“this might not be the best place to have this discussion.”
“I’d say it’s the perfect place!”
“Please don’t make a scene, Juliet.”
I’d already opened my mouth to say something, but when my dad said that, I shut it. Both of my parents hated scenes of any kind. If we were out in public and my brother or I started complaining about something or making a fuss, one of them would say, You’re making a scene, and we were pretty much guaranteed to keep quiet.
My father put his hand on my shoulder. “I want you to come home with me,” he said.
I stared at him. “Do you mean my home or your home?”
He looked surprised, like he’d just assumed I’d know what he meant but also like now that I’d asked, he really wasn’t sure. “Well, why don’t we go back to the house? I mean back to your”—he stumbled over the word, but only slightly—“house. And tomorrow, once we know more, you can come with me to Manhattan. And we can take it from there.”
I shook my head.
“Juliet.”
I was still shaking my head, faster now and more violently. “No,” I said.
“Juliet, I know this has been a horrible ordeal. But we need to be practical.”
“Mom wouldn’t want you staying in the house,” I said, which seemed as practical as anything I might say.
“She won’t know I stayed there.”
“I’m not lying to her,” I said, and then I started to cry. “Why did you say that about her?” I put my hand over my eyes.
He put his other hand on my other shoulder. “Sweetheart.”
“Stop touching me,” I snapped, and I jerked away from him. A few heads turned our way.
His hands hung in the air briefly before he dropped them to his sides. “You’ve had a terrible day. I know that. And I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk about … everything. It’s my fault. I know that. But right now I am trying to think of what’s best for you.” He kept his voice calm the whole time he was talking.
I’d always liked having a handsome father, but tonight his edgy glasses and crisp, perfectly fitted oxford just irritated me.
“I’m not going with you, Dad,” I said, still shaking my head. Snot and tears were dripping down my face, but I didn’t care. “I’m not.” I took a step away from him and toward the exit.
“Juliet,
