Chapter 3
Ava
I sank into softness, a bed that stayed still instead of rolled. People walked in and out, murmuring, shining light onto my face. My belly shook and my eyes got wet. I wiped and wiped until the words started returning. Tears. Cry. Hospital. Nurse. Pain.
My head hurt.
A woman sat in a chair by the bed. Some people called her Mrs. Roberts. Another called her Geneva. Then someone said she was my mom.
When I tried to sit up, she pressed me back down. “Rest, Ava.” So I did.
I woke to a low, aching pressure in my belly. I shifted from side to side, but each movement made it worse. I sat up, a roar in my ears, my hands on my stomach.
Mom jumped from her chair and helped me stand up. “You probably have to use the bathroom.”
She led me to another small room, arranging the wires that trailed behind me. They attached to my head. What were they for? Mom didn’t have them. The nurses either.
“This is the bathroom,” she said. “Normally I show you what to do, but we’re not home.” She glanced back at the bigger room.
The air was colder in the small space. I stared at things until the words came. Toilet. Toilet paper. Sink.
She closed the door. “You sit there. The water will come out.” She smiled. “Your body will know what to do.” She reached out, but when she unzipped my clothes, I saw words on my skin and panicked. I pushed her out, hot and frightened. Something in me knew those words were only for me.
“Ava!” Mom called. “The wires!”
I slid the colored lines under the door. There was space. Then I pressed my back to the wall, trying to breathe. My chest felt tight. Why had the words scared me so much?
I bent over, touching each letter until I slowly made them out.
Trust only this handwriting.
Find your notes.
Notes?
I closed my eyes. I had so little to hold onto, scenes that began with the rolling bed, the blur of the halls. Then the room. I carefully pictured each one, weighing it against this terrible jittering in my body.
I walked to the toilet and spun the roll of soft paper. It piled on the floor.
It was for soaking up water that would come out if I sat down.
The phrase “sit on the toilet” felt natural when I said it inside my head.
I could do this.
My clothes were in the way, so I lowered them and sat. Water ran out, a release of the jittery feeling.
I stayed sitting on the toilet, not sure if the water would come again. I peered down at the words on my belly.
The next line read, Remember your life.
But I did remember. The rolling bed. Nurses. Mom. This bathroom.
There was one more line.
Read the shower curtain.
I glanced over at the sheet of plastic that separated the shower from the rest of the bathroom. It had no words on it, only a long fall of bright white.
What did the words mean?
I picked up some of the toilet paper and dried my body. It took a moment to work the zipper, but I discovered if I didn’t look, my hands knew what to do.
I turned and pushed a lever on the toilet, then jumped back at the loud noise. The water and paper moved down. I had known to do that. Parts of me remembered. Flush.
I looked around to see what else I could learn. The room had a sink and a mirror.
I walked up to the shiny glass. I knew this was me. The body wore the clothes I could see when I looked down. It moved when I did.
But I had never seen my face before.
Long dark hair swirled on my shoulders, disappearing into the white wrapping on my head. My eyes were blue with little brown specks. I leaned in and stared until my breath changed part of the mirror into fog.
A noise on the door made me jump.
“Ava?” It was Mom.
“I’m here,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
I approached the shower. I had to hurry, or she might come in.
I ran my hand along the length of the curtain. The white was unbroken. There were no notes. No handwriting. I examined it closely and found a small tag. It read, “Do not remove.”
Was that my message?
I walked inside and pulled the curtain closed. I liked the feeling. Safe. Alone. I leaned against the cold wall.
Was this what the note meant? Do not remove myself?
I slid to the floor. My feet were bare, and I wiggled my toes. I worked my way up, naming every part of my body. Ankle. Knees. Legs. The words piled up and comforted me, something for my thoughts to rest on.
Then I spotted it. A group of letters on the bottom corner of the shower curtain.
A word!
I snatched it close. More words ran up the side, written small.
Open the book History of the World. Do not let Mother see the notes inside. If no book, find the paper flowers at home. Trust no one.
I read it again and again and again. History of the World. Paper flowers.
Trust no one.
Mother meant Mom. Mother felt right when I whispered it, although it made my stomach turn over, hot and uneasy. I didn’t know why, but I understood I could not let the woman in my room see inside the book.
I had to be brave enough to go out there and find it.