A Danger to Herself and Others(72)

Now, the book feels heavy as I follow my parents to airport security. Now, I don’t think I’ll be able to concentrate on words like peerage and courtiers and excommunication. Now, I hope there will be a bookstore by the gate where I can pick out something less dense to keep me entertained on the flight.

I reach into the bag for a large barrette, sliding my arm momentarily out of its sling so I can pull my hair into a ponytail for the first time in months.

It’s hard to keep my balance with one arm in a sling and my other arm holding this heavy bag. Instead of looking where I’m going, I keep my gaze trained on my feet to make sure I don’t trip. I’m surrounded by dozens of people. I’m not used to being around this many people anymore.

Someone bumps into me, offering a muffled excuse me. I look up and see a woman with long dark hair.

“Wait,” I say before I can stop myself.

She pauses, looking me up and down and then at the ground by my feet. “Did I drop something?”

No, I think. It’s just that for a second there you looked like my friend Lucy. I shake my head, and she walks away. I wonder if she thinks I’m strange. Maybe she assumes I’m a confused tourist.

We make our way through security—shoes off, shoes on, bags on the conveyor belt, et cetera—and walk toward our gate. An announcement rings through the air, “Final boarding call for Flight 13 to Seattle-Tacoma.”

Seattle is (was, wasn’t, never was) Jonah’s hometown.

“Hurry up, Hannah.” Mom’s trying to keep her voice light, like I’m merely dawdling (something I never did before, always determined to get from one place to the next efficiently like my parents taught me), but I can tell she’s anxious. She and Dad want to get to the gate and sit down, stay put. I pick up my pace. I train my eyes on my parents’ backs like a little kid who’s scared of getting lost. I feel a flutter of adrenaline in my belly, as though I’m scared of flying.

I don’t mean to lose track of my parents, but suddenly I can’t see Mom’s beige blazer, Dad’s tweedy sport coat. I glance around nervously, trying to find them.

It’s okay, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. Just remember the gate number and follow the signs. But I can’t remember the gate number.

My ticket’s in my bag. It says which gate to go to on the ticket.

I stop and drop the tote bag to the floor, crouch down and rifle through it.

I’ll show Mom and Dad that I’m capable of getting to the gate by myself. They’ll see that I’m not so different from the daughter they remember.

They probably miss that girl, the same way I miss Lucy.

My father’s voice: How long until she forgets about these imaginary friends?

My heart pounds. I concentrate on my breaths—in, out, in, out—but no matter how hard I try, they come out short and ragged, not steady and calm.

I don’t know when I start crying, but soon my vision is so blurred with tears that I can’t find my ticket. I wipe my eyes and stand. My foot slips out of the slightly-too-big ballet flats (the stylish kind, not the Lightfoot kind) my mother bought me.

I slide my foot back into my shoe and take a tentative step. People rush past me on either side. They’ve got places to go: planes to catch, families to get home to, meetings to attend, but I move slowly.

If I just keep walking, I’ll see my parents waiting at one of the gates.

My gaze lands on a poster advertising the San Francisco Ballet Company: a pretty Latina girl captured in mid-leap against a gray background, her long hair floating around her face.

Is this where I first got the idea for Lucy? Maybe I saw that poster when I got off the plane in June (was that same poster here in June?) and the image stored itself somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

Or maybe Dr. Charan’s ridiculous ballet slippers gave me the idea to make Lucy a ballerina.

Or maybe none of the above.

I twist my left arm from its sling and close my eyes so tight I see spots. I press my hands to the sides of my skull as if I think I can squeeze out an explanation.

But there’s only the bustle and hum of the airport around me.





forty-nine


I slide the lock into place and press my back against the metallic silver door.

Was there a line to get into the ladies’ room? Did I cut the line? I don’t know. I wanted to find somewhere quiet, some place away from the crowd where I could be alone. The bathroom seemed like the closest available option.

But I can still hear the women talking outside the stall. Discussing their upcoming trips, or how happy they are to be home. Chatting on their phones to pass the time while they wait in line. Will I ever get used to being around noise and chatter again?

My elbow hurts. I can feel my pulse under the tight bandage. I undo the metal teeth holding the bandage in place and start unwinding, letting the stretchy tan fabric pool on the linoleum floor. It’s gray here too, but darker than the institute’s floors. The bruise on my arm has gone from pink to red to purple to green, though it’s still plum-colored at the center. I unroll the sleeve of my blouse so I won’t have to look at it.

I slide my back down the door and sit, my legs straight out in front of me, my feet resting on either side of the toilet. I wish Lucy were here to tell me I’ll be okay, it’s all going to be okay. I wish Jonah were here to take my hand and pull me close and kiss the top of my head. Of course, wishing for them isn’t the same thing as hearing them, seeing them, feeling them. I open my eyes and look at my hand, empty with no one to hold it. I wish my brain could give them back to me just long enough to make me feel better.