Chapter 1: The Seventh Morning
On the seventh morning of the headache I paid a taxi driver every dollar in my robe pocket, nineteen dollars in crumpled ones and loose change, to take me to the hospital my husband had sworn I did not need. I was barefoot in borrowed shower sandals, wearing my husband’s sweatpants and a robe over a nightgown, and my feet felt like blocks of wood wrapped in pins. The driver, an older man named Walt with a gray beard and a Panthers cap, did not ask me a single question, and for that kindness I will remember him for the rest of my life. He handed me his granddaughter’s rubber sandals from under the seat and let me charge my dead phone on his dashboard cord while we drove in silence to Lake View Regional. At triage a nurse named Dana, about my age with reading glasses pushed up into her hair, asked me to rate my pain from one to ten. I said eight, then changed it to nine, then apologized for changing it, and she smiled and told me nobody had ever been arrested for changing their number.
Dr. Samuel Hail came in about twenty minutes later. He was tall and a little stooped, in his early fifties, with tired eyes and very warm hands. Before he ever touched my wrist he watched me walk to the curtain and back, and when I wobbled like a toddler he caught my elbow without comment. He tapped my knees with a little rubber hammer and my legs barely moved. He ran the end of a paper clip along the soles of my feet and I did not feel it until it reached my heel. “How long has the numbness been there?” he asked, writing it down. “Months,” I said. “I thought it was grief. My husband thought it was grief. He said I didn’t need a doctor.” Dr. Hail nodded and picked up his little light. He shone it into my left eye, then my right, and asked me to squeeze his fingers. Then he turned my left hand over to check my pulse, and the sleeve of my robe slid back, and he stopped.
There on the inside of my wrist were four dark ovals lined up in a row, like thumbprints pressed into clay. “Who did this?” he asked quietly. “My husband,” I said. “He was helping me.” He did not answer. He was looking at my fingernails now, at the thin white lines running across every one of them, and his hand stayed frozen on mine. Then he turned his head toward the nurse’s station and raised his voice so the whole hallway heard it. “Call the police right now, and nobody takes this patient out of my department.” My phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from my husband, Ethan. I see where you are. Don’t let them give you anything. Mom and I are coming. I froze. For seven days I had believed the most dangerous thing in my life was the pain inside my own head. I was wrong.
