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Authors: Elizabeth Bear
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around her plate again, pretending like she’s only being polite.
“I don’t know,” Tara says. She stops herself abruptly, chews and swallows the mouthful of mashed potatoes before mom can yell at her. She reaches out and picks a hard, round red grape off her mother’s plate, waiting for the nod of permission. It crunches sweetly between her teeth. She takes another one. “I just . . . it seems really important.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
Mom picks up one solitary kidney bean on the end of her fork and stares at it. She slips it into her mouth and chews slowly. “Tara,” she says.
“It’s more important that you don’t risk your life playing the fainting game anymore. If Albert’s real, and he’s a grown-up scientist, even if he’s an alien, he’d agree with me. Don’t you think?”
“I’m always careful. That’s the problem. I think if I had just a little more time with him, we could talk.”
“It doesn’t matter how careful you are. It’s dangerous.”
“Mom—”
“Tara.” Mom puts her fork down, and uses that voice. “Promise me.” Tara finishes her meal in silence, while Mom stares at her and doesn’t eat another thing. They’re going to make her sleep in the hospital bed tonight, with the lights that don’t go off and the shadows behind the oneway mirror all the time.
It’s okay. She can sleep anywhere. And she has a plan.
I was supposed to sleep on the couch. Predictably, I spent the entire night in the observation room. Tara seemed to be sleeping, under the pale blue light, her hair fanned out on the pillow and her knees drawn up against her chest as always. I sat and watched her with the observation room lights off, so every time Dr. al-Mansoor or the staffer came in for the check, a wedge of light fell across the floor and dazzled me for a minute.
Each time, they paused in the doorway, glanced through the window for a moment, smiled at me, and withdrew. I think Dr. al-Mansoor was hoping I’d fall asleep on the bench. Not quite.
At two in the morning, Tara began to thrash.
She kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed, rolled under the bed in the space of time it took me to hit the call button and dive for the connecting door, shouting her name. I crawled after her, scrabbling on hands and knees. The metal railing caught my shoulders, knocking me off my knees and onto my belly, and I squirmed after her. She jammed herself into the space by the head of the bed and curled on her side, knees drawn up, hands pressing me back, pressing me away. Battling, until her arms went soft and her feet kicked, or I should say shivered.
I couldn’t hear her breathing.
I got my hand around the slender flexible bones of her ankle and pulled. She went limp as I dragged her out, and first I thought she was making herself dead weight, but when I got her into the light I saw how limp she was. I thought it was the light turning her blue, but then the door thumped open and the light came on and I could see it was her skin, as well.
You’re supposed to check the airway. Her mouth fell open, slack, and I ran my fingers into it. Her tongue hadn’t fallen back, but I thought my fingers brushed something smooth and resilient, hard, at the back of her throat.
“Jillian,” Dr. al-Mansoor said, her hand on my shoulder.
“She’s choking,” I said, and let her pull me out of the way. “I think she palmed a grape at dinner. I didn’t think—” Stupid. Stupid. No, I didn’t think at all.
Dr. al-Mansoor yanked off her rings. They rattled on the floor, disregarded, gold and diamonds knocked aside as she straddled my daughter’s hips, straightened her neck. She placed t he heel of her interlocked hands under Tara’s breastbone and I loved her with all my heart.
I remembered Tara crowding away from me under the bed, her eyes wide and wild, her desperation. Tara was the smartest kid I’ve ever known. She’d had swimming courses, first aid courses. She was ten. Not a
“I don’t know,” Tara says. She stops herself abruptly, chews and swallows the mouthful of mashed potatoes before mom can yell at her. She reaches out and picks a hard, round red grape off her mother’s plate, waiting for the nod of permission. It crunches sweetly between her teeth. She takes another one. “I just . . . it seems really important.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know.”
Mom picks up one solitary kidney bean on the end of her fork and stares at it. She slips it into her mouth and chews slowly. “Tara,” she says.
“It’s more important that you don’t risk your life playing the fainting game anymore. If Albert’s real, and he’s a grown-up scientist, even if he’s an alien, he’d agree with me. Don’t you think?”
“I’m always careful. That’s the problem. I think if I had just a little more time with him, we could talk.”
“It doesn’t matter how careful you are. It’s dangerous.”
“Mom—”
“Tara.” Mom puts her fork down, and uses that voice. “Promise me.” Tara finishes her meal in silence, while Mom stares at her and doesn’t eat another thing. They’re going to make her sleep in the hospital bed tonight, with the lights that don’t go off and the shadows behind the oneway mirror all the time.
It’s okay. She can sleep anywhere. And she has a plan.
I was supposed to sleep on the couch. Predictably, I spent the entire night in the observation room. Tara seemed to be sleeping, under the pale blue light, her hair fanned out on the pillow and her knees drawn up against her chest as always. I sat and watched her with the observation room lights off, so every time Dr. al-Mansoor or the staffer came in for the check, a wedge of light fell across the floor and dazzled me for a minute.
Each time, they paused in the doorway, glanced through the window for a moment, smiled at me, and withdrew. I think Dr. al-Mansoor was hoping I’d fall asleep on the bench. Not quite.
At two in the morning, Tara began to thrash.
She kicked the covers off and rolled out of bed, rolled under the bed in the space of time it took me to hit the call button and dive for the connecting door, shouting her name. I crawled after her, scrabbling on hands and knees. The metal railing caught my shoulders, knocking me off my knees and onto my belly, and I squirmed after her. She jammed herself into the space by the head of the bed and curled on her side, knees drawn up, hands pressing me back, pressing me away. Battling, until her arms went soft and her feet kicked, or I should say shivered.
I couldn’t hear her breathing.
I got my hand around the slender flexible bones of her ankle and pulled. She went limp as I dragged her out, and first I thought she was making herself dead weight, but when I got her into the light I saw how limp she was. I thought it was the light turning her blue, but then the door thumped open and the light came on and I could see it was her skin, as well.
You’re supposed to check the airway. Her mouth fell open, slack, and I ran my fingers into it. Her tongue hadn’t fallen back, but I thought my fingers brushed something smooth and resilient, hard, at the back of her throat.
“Jillian,” Dr. al-Mansoor said, her hand on my shoulder.
“She’s choking,” I said, and let her pull me out of the way. “I think she palmed a grape at dinner. I didn’t think—” Stupid. Stupid. No, I didn’t think at all.
Dr. al-Mansoor yanked off her rings. They rattled on the floor, disregarded, gold and diamonds knocked aside as she straddled my daughter’s hips, straightened her neck. She placed t he heel of her interlocked hands under Tara’s breastbone and I loved her with all my heart.
I remembered Tara crowding away from me under the bed, her eyes wide and wild, her desperation. Tara was the smartest kid I’ve ever known. She’d had swimming courses, first aid courses. She was ten. Not a
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