I pull the car over on the side of the drop-off ramp for the ER. Even though my heart is racing, I think I can get away with parking here, at least while I walk Sophie into the triage. Her normally symmetrical face is distorted, her mouth stuck open. She has stopped trying to speak, which only produced a moaned "O" as if she was singing. She has told me by texting on my phone and showing it to me that she yawned, and I can tell her jaw has unhinged and is sitting outside its sockets. Her beautiful eyes roll toward me, full of pain, as I urge her to get out of the car. Even in her worn-out night shirt and her dad's boxers, Sophie is a stunner, of model height and with perfect legs, often on display for the appreciative world during the spring and summer. You could say we bought her those legs with thousands of dollars in dance fees. That would be unfair, though—she's worked very hard for her talent and stellar college grades. I put my hand on her shoulder as we pass through the sliding door. I can see she is terrified by the sudden, agonizing change in her body. I talk for her to the admissions desk, as if she's a shy child again. In 15 minutes, they bring her back to one of their beds. Although the doors are wide open, I notice they could be closed and sealed for each patient, as if we're in a TV show in which Ebola or some other scourge might need to be isolated at any time, and woe to anyone who's in the room with Patient Zero.
Sophie is texting on my phone a lot, asking me over and over how long it will take, because the pain is growing. Every once in a while, she gets upset and tries to talk, and it produces a small moan and some clear drool that I wipe from under her jaw with a paper covering they've given her. They make me park the car, and I forget to give her my phone to talk to the nurses. When I come back, she is writing on the paper bed cover with her beautiful, looping handwriting. The first line is, Sorry I didn't brush my teeth. Her jaw makes her look like a more attractive version of Munch's "The Scream." The nurse compliments her on her bravery. They have told her they will sedate her, but as the minutes wear on, she gets more and more agitated from the horrible aching. I can't sit down, feeling an old tightness in my own jaw, and I hover on the edge of our doorway, looking for the nurse. I hear yelling and see a dumpy woman with bleached hair across the medical station weaving a little as she stands by her bed, on the opposite side of the circle of rooms. Three security officers converge on her.
"I don't want these damn nurses. Get me a doctor. A doctor! No, I don't want this shot!"
It sounds like she's on drugs and they're trying to sedate her. Next to our room, another patient starts keening, his dark skin pale with pain. The nurses seem impotent, standing around in the medical station or briefly speaking to the patients when they make noise. I reminded Sophie in the waiting room that many of them don't have anywhere else to go for medical treatment. I'm still surprised we got admitted so fast. Sophie is crying now, despite the nurse's earlier compliment on her bravery. It's not the surroundings, it's just the pain and the fear of more of it. When they finally come with the morphine, she quiets a little, after spasming with fear when the drug prickled in her bloodstream. She is afraid of the ketamine they will give her, and flaps her hands and types Keta on my phone. I have to tell her it's not just a drug for addicts. The nurse leaves again. As Sophie's head tilts back against the raised back of the bed and her eyes close, I hear a strange sound coming from her open mouth. I lean forward to try to make sure she's not choking or reacting somehow. A tiny, grinding voice is coming out without any movement of her jaw or body.
"I don't want those damn nurses. Get me a doctor. I don't want this."
I push her shoulder to try to wake her up, do something to make it stop, even though I know it isn't her talking in there. Her eyes flicker open, and she fumbles for my phone to type something. But all she asks is when they will do it. Soon enough, they put the ketamine in her IV and she's out. By the time I return from the bathroom, the doctor gives me the thumbs up that it's done. Her face is beautiful again—I know I shouldn't notice at a time like this, but her physical presence is changed. The nurse is ordering her to breathe because the sedation was so deep, she's still lost in it. In a few minutes, she comes out and finds me holding her hand. "Mama," she says sweetly, chemically returned to the comfort of childhood.
I'm so relieved to be walking out with her, I've put it all behind me until I see an underfed woman in worn blue clothes walk past, her mouth frozen open and a string of spit hanging down. I jerk my gaze to Sophie, who is placid and obviously sees nothing weird. I hope I'm not losing it. When we stop at the pharmacy, the homeless guy outside is looking at me with a frozen, ugly gape. I look down and grab Sophie's arm to steady myself.
