I woke in the dark.
The sheets were rough and smelled
of Clorox. White curtains around my bed,
ghosts with thin hearts.
The woman next to me had a rasping cough.
I was seventeen.
Seventy-five pounds.
My best.
I had overheard the doctor tell my father I might die.
Heart muscle damaged. Heart barely beating.
I didn’t care. I waited in the dark.
A nurse came and insisted that I get up.
I tried and fainted.
So there.
They let me stay in bed.
I refused food. Said I wasn’t hungry.
A familiar refrain.
I spoke a few words to the woman
on the other side of the curtain.
I told her my name.
Hers sounded something like Emily,
but her voice was weak, barely a whisper.
I missed my parents.
Why weren’t they there?
A commotion around the woman’s bed.
Doctors, nurses scurrying. Equipment rolling on
squeaky wheels. Hushed voices like a library.
Or a white-walled chapel.
After, they opened the curtain between our beds.
Her bed was empty.
Starched sheets, plumped pillows.
And I knew that wasn’t what I wanted.
To be a ghost with a thin heart.
To disappear. Forever.
I eyed the scrambled eggs on my tray.
To this day I pray for the woman
who saved my life.
I think her name was Emily.