don't like how
my face looks in a nun's habit," I blurted out before I could think.
My mom choked on a couple words. I
couldn't help but laugh to myself even though she would never send me a nun's
habit and wasn't even the right religion for it. That's what I get for watching
my Sister Act DVD so many times in a row .
Muttering so fast and low that I
could only catch the words "devil-girl" and "eternal punishment,"
she promptly hung up.
I laughed quietly and slowly, and
then as I re-lived my moment of temporary triumph, my laughing got harsher and
louder. Good thing Dr. Hearse wasn't nearby, or I'm sure he would have some 'interesting'
notes to add to my file.
I stopped laughing after several
minutes, and then sighed contentedly. That was great. I supposed I should have
thanked her for offering to send me clothes to wear home, since I didn't have
anything besides that butt-baring hospital gown.
But it also would have been nice if she had given me a chance to explain or, even better, not jumped
to conclusions when Ethan called her. It would have been nice if she had
thought, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for what she did. My
daughter does not whore herself for drugs and does not cut herself up because
she's high." Or even better: If she had even asked me once how I was
feeling. Did she even know I was in a long-term relationship, and had just
gotten out of it? I doubted it but sadly, I couldn't say for sure.
Why did she always assume
everything was my fault? I sighed and shook the thoughts out of my head. I was
barking up a tree long dead. If the answer to that was inside my brain
somewhere, I would have found it already. Lord knows I'd tried.
"Morgan?" asked a polite,
unsure voice.
My breath caught. What the hell?
Was someone here to visit me? That would be inconceivable. My eyes followed the
sound toward the partially-open door.
Dess—the girl from work who'd taken
away the most beautiful man in the universe—stood there looking timid, which
directly conflicted with the way she presented herself. She had a unique look
about her. She seemed to be of some kind of Asian descent, about four or five
inches taller than I but appeared to be younger, about 18 or so. Her long,
curly black hair had alternating purple and green highlights at the ends. On
her legs she wore things that seemed to be a cross between leggings and
tights: cotton, black, and resembled exaggerated fishnet-style stockings. She
wore a red jean skirt over that, and a red, see-through mesh top over a black
t-shirt. She had a big red circular tattoo that covered the inside of the crook
of her slim, light brown right arm.
"Dess," I said, trying to
keep the surprise out of my voice. Where the hell was that sitting-up bed
remote thing?
She understood immediately what I
was looking for and, after a moment's hesitation, came in and found the
remote-looking device that was attached to my bed with a short cord. "Here
you go," she said, still shy and polite, my cardboard bed bending so that
I could sit comfortably. Once I sat up, she took a step back after putting a
small green vase of orchids next to my telephone.
Her voice was gentle and
respectful. "I heard you were in the hospital."
"From who? Anny?"
"Yeah," she admitted with
a short, apologetic chuckle. "Our illustrious boss was on the phone,
telling someone about it. I don't know who." Dess rolled her eyes and bit
down on her lip.
"Are you freaking kidding me?"
I didn't know whether to burst out crying or laugh crazily. "I could get
her ass fired." Despite the negativity of my words, I suddenly felt
comfortable around her. At work I was never in her direct presence for more
than a minute, but right now, it felt like I've known her for years. Like I
could be rude, polite, talk about art history, or pass gas and it would all be
equally acceptable to her. I instantly felt a pang of guilt for thinking evil
thoughts about her, especially without bothering to get to know her.
"You could.
my face looks in a nun's habit," I blurted out before I could think.
My mom choked on a couple words. I
couldn't help but laugh to myself even though she would never send me a nun's
habit and wasn't even the right religion for it. That's what I get for watching
my Sister Act DVD so many times in a row .
Muttering so fast and low that I
could only catch the words "devil-girl" and "eternal punishment,"
she promptly hung up.
I laughed quietly and slowly, and
then as I re-lived my moment of temporary triumph, my laughing got harsher and
louder. Good thing Dr. Hearse wasn't nearby, or I'm sure he would have some 'interesting'
notes to add to my file.
I stopped laughing after several
minutes, and then sighed contentedly. That was great. I supposed I should have
thanked her for offering to send me clothes to wear home, since I didn't have
anything besides that butt-baring hospital gown.
But it also would have been nice if she had given me a chance to explain or, even better, not jumped
to conclusions when Ethan called her. It would have been nice if she had
thought, "I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation for what she did. My
daughter does not whore herself for drugs and does not cut herself up because
she's high." Or even better: If she had even asked me once how I was
feeling. Did she even know I was in a long-term relationship, and had just
gotten out of it? I doubted it but sadly, I couldn't say for sure.
Why did she always assume
everything was my fault? I sighed and shook the thoughts out of my head. I was
barking up a tree long dead. If the answer to that was inside my brain
somewhere, I would have found it already. Lord knows I'd tried.
"Morgan?" asked a polite,
unsure voice.
My breath caught. What the hell?
Was someone here to visit me? That would be inconceivable. My eyes followed the
sound toward the partially-open door.
Dess—the girl from work who'd taken
away the most beautiful man in the universe—stood there looking timid, which
directly conflicted with the way she presented herself. She had a unique look
about her. She seemed to be of some kind of Asian descent, about four or five
inches taller than I but appeared to be younger, about 18 or so. Her long,
curly black hair had alternating purple and green highlights at the ends. On
her legs she wore things that seemed to be a cross between leggings and
tights: cotton, black, and resembled exaggerated fishnet-style stockings. She
wore a red jean skirt over that, and a red, see-through mesh top over a black
t-shirt. She had a big red circular tattoo that covered the inside of the crook
of her slim, light brown right arm.
"Dess," I said, trying to
keep the surprise out of my voice. Where the hell was that sitting-up bed
remote thing?
She understood immediately what I
was looking for and, after a moment's hesitation, came in and found the
remote-looking device that was attached to my bed with a short cord. "Here
you go," she said, still shy and polite, my cardboard bed bending so that
I could sit comfortably. Once I sat up, she took a step back after putting a
small green vase of orchids next to my telephone.
Her voice was gentle and
respectful. "I heard you were in the hospital."
"From who? Anny?"
"Yeah," she admitted with
a short, apologetic chuckle. "Our illustrious boss was on the phone,
telling someone about it. I don't know who." Dess rolled her eyes and bit
down on her lip.
"Are you freaking kidding me?"
I didn't know whether to burst out crying or laugh crazily. "I could get
her ass fired." Despite the negativity of my words, I suddenly felt
comfortable around her. At work I was never in her direct presence for more
than a minute, but right now, it felt like I've known her for years. Like I
could be rude, polite, talk about art history, or pass gas and it would all be
equally acceptable to her. I instantly felt a pang of guilt for thinking evil
thoughts about her, especially without bothering to get to know her.
"You could.
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