“Door open or closed?”
“Closed.”
Ellen closed it most of the way.
“Want Mom back?”
A long pause.
Then:
“No.”
Emily heard from the hall.
Ellen saw the pain on her face.
She did not try to fix that either.
Children recovering from major surgery had very little control.
Sometimes saying no to the person they loved most was one of the few choices available.
Ellen returned to the bedside.
“Can I get you something?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
“Popsicle?”
“No.”
“Cartoon?”
“No.”
Ellen nodded.
“All right.”
Another minute passed.
Then a small voice from beneath the blanket asked:
“Can I have my hoodie?”
Ellen knew which one.
A pale-pink sweatshirt sat folded on the windowsill.
Emily had brought it from home because Lily liked oversized hoodies when she was cold.
Ellen retrieved it.
“You want help?”
“No.”
She handed it beneath the blanket.
For several minutes, Lily wrestled with the sweatshirt privately.
When she finally emerged, the hood had been pulled so far forward that only the tip of her nose and one eye were visible.
She clutched the collar against her cheek with both hands.
The pink fabric concealed almost everything.
The incision.
The shaved hair.
The staples.
Most of her face.
Ellen looked at her.
Lily looked away.
“I’m a monster.”
Ellen had learned not to answer too quickly.
Children knew when adults delivered automatic reassurance.
Instead she asked:
“What makes somebody a monster?”
Lily’s visible eye turned toward her.
“They look scary.”
“Some monsters in movies do.”
“I look scary.”
“You look like someone who had surgery.”
“That’s scary.”
“It can be.”
Lily’s lip trembled.
“Everyone will stare.”
Some adults would have said no, they won’t.
Ellen had seen enough of the world not to promise that.
“Some people might.”
Lily looked horrified.
Ellen continued before fear could close again.
“People stare when they don’t understand something.”
“That does not mean there’s something wrong with the person they’re looking at.”
Lily’s hands tightened on the hoodie.
“I don’t want anybody to see.”
“All right.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
Ellen nodded.
“Then we start with today.”
That was how Tuesday began.
By noon, Lily had refused breakfast and lunch.
By one, she would not let the physical therapist take her into the hallway.
At two, her mother tried again to sit beside her and was allowed only after promising not to mention the staples.
At three, Dr. Aaron Patel, the pediatric neurosurgeon who had performed Lily’s operation, came to check her.
Lily immediately pulled the pink hood tighter.
Dr. Patel stopped six feet from the bed.
“You want me over here?”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
He examined what he could without forcing.
Strength.
Speech.
Eye movements.
Questions about headache.
Then he said:
“The scan this morning looked very good.”
Emily’s hand covered her mouth.
She had already been told.
Hearing it from the surgeon still changed the air.
Lily did not respond.
Dr. Patel tried:
“You know what that means?”
“No.”
“It means I’m very happy with what we were able to do.”
Lily stared at the blanket.
“Did you put the metal in me?”
Dr. Patel paused.