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kept trying to get up and leave but the woman
wouldn't let her. "Here!" I couldn't hear it, but I could see her say it. Odd.

Then in came Mum and I partook of a hearty breakfast--half a slice of toast, eleven grapes, eight
pills, and a record-breaking sixty Rice Krispies--because I needed to convince her how well I
was getting. While she was washing me--a miserable business with toweling cloths and a bowl
of scummy lukewarm water--I went for it.

"Mum, I've decided to go back to New York."

"Don't be shagging well ridiculous." She continued rinsing me.

"My scars are healing, my knee can take weight, all the bruises are gone."

It was strange, really; I'd had myriad injuries, but none had been serious. Although my face had
been black-and-blue, none of the bones had been broken. I could have been crushed like an
eggshell and spent the rest of my life looking like a Cubist painting (as Helen had put it). I knew
I'd been lucky.

"And look how fast my fingernails are growing." I wiggled my hand at her; I'd lost two
fingernails and the pain had been--I'm not joking--indescribable, far worse than my broken
arm. Even the morphine-based painkillers couldn't entirely negate it; the pain was always there,
just slightly further away, and I used to wake in the nighttime with my fingers throbbing so much
they felt swollen to the size of pumpkins. Now they barely hurt.

"You've a broken arm, missy. Broken in three places."

"But they were clean breaks and it doesn't hurt anymore. I'd say it's nearly better."
"Oh, you're a bone surgeon now, are you?"

"No, I'm a beauty PR and they won't keep my job open forever." I let that thought settle with
her, then I whispered darkly, "No more free makeup."

But not even that worked. "You're going nowhere, missy."

However, I'd picked my time well: that very afternoon I had my weekly hospital checkup, and if
the professionals said I was getting better, Mum wouldn't have a leg to stand on.

A fter lots of hanging around, an X-ray was taken of my arm. As I'd thought, it was healing
fast and well; the sling could be removed immediately and the plaster could come off in a couple
of weeks.

Then onto the skin specialist, who said I was doing so well that the stitches could be taken out of
my cheek. Even I hadn't expected that. It hurt more than I'd thought it would and an angry, red,
puckered line ran from the corner of my eye to the corner of my mouth, but now that my face
was no longer being held together by navy-blue thread, I looked far, far more normal.

"What about plastic surgery?" Mum asked.

"Eventually," he said. "But not for a while. It's always hard to tell how well these things will
heal."

Then on to Dr. Chowdhury to have my internal organs poked and prodded. According to him, all
the bruising and swelling had subsided and he said, like he'd said on the other visits, how
unbelieveably fortunate I'd been not to have ruptured anything.

"She's talking about going back to New York," Mum burst out. "Tell her she's not well enough to
travel."

"But she was well enough to travel home," Dr. Chowdhury said, with undeniable truth.

Mum stared at him, and even though she didn't say it, not even under her breath, her "Fuck you,
fuckhead" hung in the air.

Mum and I drove home in grim silence. At least Mum did, my silence was happy and--I couldn't
help it--a little smug.

"What about your gammy knee?" Mum said, suddenly animated: all was not lost. "How can you
go to New York if you can't climb a step?"
"I'll make you a deal," I said. "If I can walk to the top of the stairs on it, I'm well enough to go
back."

She agreed because she thought I hadn't a hope of doing it. But she had no idea how determined
I was to leave. I would do it. And I did do it--even though it took over ten minutes and left me
covered in sweat and a little puky from the pain.

But what Mum was missing was that even if I hadn't been able to get past the first step, I was
leaving anyway. I needed to get back and I was starting to get