Chapter 6 Tasha
six
tasha
I was having the most delicious dream about lying on a beach with a mojito and Chris Evans when my phone shattered the fantasy.
Chris, you see, had just offered to apply my sunscreen with those impossibly perfect hands of his onto places the FDA doesn’t even regulate.
So when I saw Crawford's name on the screen of my phone, I almost sent him straight to voicemail—emergency room trauma could wait until my actual shift—but some impulse made me answer.
His voice was tight with the strain of someone barely holding it together. Paige was in trouble. He had one else to call. Woe is him. Please help.
Now I was pulling into Riverdale Elementary's parking lot, wondering what the hell I was doing. This wasn't my problem. Wasn't my kid. Wasn't my responsibility.
But something in Crawford's voice had gotten to me. The iron control he wore like armor had cracked, just for a moment. And somewhere in that crack, I'd seen something real.
Besides, I liked Paige. The kid had substance.
The school's front office was the same beige-and-inspirational-poster combo as every elementary school in America. The harried-looking woman at the desk looked up as I entered.
"May I help you?"
"I'm Tasha Williams. Nate Crawford sent me for Paige."
The woman's expression immediately shifted to relief. "Ms. Williams, thank you for coming. I'm Andrea Wilson, the assistant principal." She lowered her voice. "Paige is still in the girls' bathroom near the cafeteria. She still won't come out, though we've assured her she's not in trouble."
"Has she said anything specific about what's wrong?"
"Just that she wanted her dad." Ms. Wilson sighed. "Fifth grade can be tough socially. We've had incidents of bullying, though Paige hasn't reported any."
"I'd like to try talking to her alone," I said. "Kids can be funny about audiences."
Ms. Wilson led me through the cheerful corridors decorated with student artwork and science projects. Outside the bathroom door, a female teacher was speaking softly through the door.
"Paige, honey? There's someone here from your dad."
I nodded to the teacher. "I've got this."
Once she'd retreated to a discrete distance, I leaned against the wall beside the bathroom door. "Hey, Paige. It's Tasha. From the hospital. ‘The Giver’? Butterfly maker extraordinaire? Remember?"
Silence. Then a small, muffled voice: "My dad sent you?"
"Yep. He's stuck at work with some major emergencies, so I'm the B-team. Lucky you."
A wet-sounding sniffle. "I want to go home."
"I bet you do. But first, think you can unlock the door? Just for me? These hallway tiles are hideous, and I'd rather not be seen hanging out here too long."
A pause. Then the soft click of a lock. I slipped inside quickly, locking the door behind me.
Paige sat on the floor in the corner, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her face was blotchy from crying, hair escaping from her ponytail. She looked so small and miserable that something in my chest squeezed unexpectedly tight.
"Hey, kiddo," I said, keeping my voice casual as I sat on the floor beside her, leaving space between us. "Rough day?"
She nodded, not meeting my eyes.
"Want to tell me what's going on? I'm pretty good with emergencies. It's kind of my whole job."
Paige buried her face against her knees. "It's embarrassing."
"More embarrassing than the time I accidentally set off the fire alarm at my high school because I was trying to microwave a Snickers bar?"
That earned me a quick glance. "Why would you microwave a Snickers?"
"I thought it would taste like a warm brownie. It does not. It becomes lava." I smiled. "So, what's up? Stomach bug? Threw up in class? Wardrobe malfunction? I've seen it all, kiddo."
Paige hesitated, then stage whispered, "I'm bleeding."
Ahhhhhh. Everything clicked into place. "First time?"
She nodded miserably. "And I don't have any... stuff. Dad made me this emergency kit thing, but I took it out of my backpack because I needed room for my science project materials."
"That tracks," I said, nodding sagely. "Science has a way of being inconsiderate to female biology. You've got blood on your pants?"
Another nod, more tears welling up. "Everyone's going to know. Amber Miller already asked if I was okay because I looked weird during math."
"Amber Miller sounds kinda nosy," I said. "But I get it. It's scary the first time, even when you're prepared. And at school? Ugh, the worst."
"Dad told me it would happen eventually.
" Paige sniffled. "He bought all these different kinds of pads and we sat at the kitchen table while he opened the packages and tried to figure out how they worked.
He kept reading the instructions and saying 'Wait, that can't be right' and then trying again. "
"What happened?" I asked, fascinated by this mental image.
"He stuck one upside down at first," Paige said, a small smile breaking through her tears.
That startled a genuine laugh out of me. "I can just picture it. Your dad with his serious face, battling adhesive strips."
"He finally called one of the ladies he works with—Maria, I think—and put her on speakerphone. She was laughing so hard. But then she helped us figure it out."
"Your dad is something else."
"He does his best," Paige said with a fiercely defensive note that made me like her even more.
"He absolutely does," I agreed. "And now, so will we. Here's the plan: I've got a pad in my purse. You're going to use it, then take off your jacket and tie it around your waist. We're going to walk out of here with our heads high, and I'm taking you home. Sound good?"
Relief washed over her face. "You have one? Right now?"
"Never leave home without it." I pulled the wrapped pad from my purse. "Want me to step out?"
She shook her head. "Can you... explain again how to use it? It's been a while since..."
For the next few minutes, I walked her through the basics, answering her questions with the same straightforward tone I'd use for any medical procedure. By the time we finished, her tears had dried, and she'd tied her purple jacket around her waist.
"Perfect," I said. "Can't see a thing. Ready to make our escape?"
She took a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you for coming."
"No problem, kiddo. That's what... friends are for."
We emerged from the bathroom with dignity intact. Ms. Wilson tried to ask questions, but I smoothly intercepted.
"Paige isn't feeling well. Her dad asked me to take her home. I'm an emergency department nurse, and I've got it from here."
As we walked to my car, I glanced at Paige. "We're making a pit stop before home."
"Where?" she asked, sliding into the passenger seat.
"Walgreens. Mission critical: supply run. One pad isn't going to cut it, and we need to properly equip you for the battle ahead."
A ghost of a smile appeared on her face. "Dad calls emergencies 'missions' too."
"Your dad's a pretty smart guy."
The local Walgreens was mercifully quiet. I guided Paige to the feminine hygiene aisle, which she approached with the caution of someone walking into a minefield.
"Okay," I said, gesturing to the wall of products. "Welcome to Puberty Paradise. Let's talk options."
Paige stared wide-eyed at the overwhelming selection. "There are so many."
"Intimidating, right? Let's break it down." I picked up different packages. "These are for lighter days, these for heavier. These have wings—little sticky tabs that fold under your underwear to keep everything in place. Personally, I'm Team Wings, but it's dealer's choice."
She studied the packages seriously. "Which ones are easier?"
"For beginners? Definitely pads. We'll save the tampon talk for another day."
She selected a package of junior-sized pads with wings. "These?"
"Perfect choice. Now, let's get you some backup underwear too, because accidents happen to the best of us."
We added a pack of plain cotton underwear to our basket, then wandered down another aisle where I tossed in some gentle wipes.
"Last but not least," I said, steering us toward the candy aisle, "medicinal chocolate. Doctor's orders."
Paige hesitated. "Dad says chocolate is an occasional treat."
"Today is 100% an occasion." I gestured grandly at the selection. "Choose your weapon."
She selected a large Hershey's bar with almonds, her smile growing a little more genuine.
At the checkout, I noticed her eyeing the items with apprehension as the cashier scanned them.
"Don't worry," I said quietly. "No one cares what we're buying, promise. To her, we're just another transaction."
As if to prove my point, the cashier barely glanced up as she bagged our items. "That'll be $33.47."
Back in the car, Paige clutched the bag to her chest. "Thank you."
"No biggie. Consider it your welcome package to the Secret Society of Menstruating People. It's an exclusive club."
She giggled, a small, brief sound—but music to my ears after her tears earlier. "Does it get easier?"
I started the car, considering how honest I wanted to be. "Yes and no. The logistics get easier. You figure out your rhythm, what products work for you. The cramping... well, ibuprofen helps. But the overall experience? It becomes normal. Just another part of life."
She nodded, digesting this. "Dad explained all the biology. The uterine lining and hormones and stuff."
"I bet he did," I said, unable to keep the amusement from my voice.
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling into the Crawford driveway. Paige had been quiet during the drive, occasionally shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
"Cramps?" I asked.
She nodded. "A little."
"We'll get you set up with a heating pad. Your dad probably has ibuprofen somewhere too."