The journey in reverse, from the tenth floor to the fifteenth, is brutally short. Crash-landing into the room. Crystal blue through the large window. Screamingly empty, obscenely bright. I have misplaced my husband, and my son has never seen sky.
“What would you like to do now?” asks the nurse, with the trained upbeat tone of all professional caregivers. “Have some breakfast? We could—”
“Shower, please.”
At least in the bathroom I can shut the door and make it dark. She hands me a towel.
There is no lock on the bathroom door. I need one, desperately. I need the safe, solid click of a bolt sealing me in. I push the stool against the door. I begin to undress. Bruises. Flaps of skin sag; yesterday they were taut. Flakes of blood—not all of it mine—in the folds. The mesh underwear is soaked.
Sliding it down to my ankles is so painful, I gasp. Air hurts. Sight hurts. I switch the lights off and shower in the dark. Water hurts. I never would have thought that water could hurt. But I welcome its pressing, scalding heat. Touch, any. Feeling. I let it flow with the water, burn my neck, my spine, my legs till it reaches the drain. The blood must be tinting the tiles pink, scarlet, vermilion.
A sharp pain in my breasts. A drop of something thick at the tip of each nipple. Milk… My body begging for contact with the baby it knows exists. Where is my baby? I don’t know what to tell it. Where is my husband? Where are the friends, the sunny streamers, the presents?
I vomit… nothing: bile, pain. Still retching, I turn the knob for hotter water. It will not go farther.
The nurse has left a change of clothes on the bed: new gown, same blue. New beige socks and mesh underwear. All of it disposable. Next to the anonymous uniform, she also set my phone. Dozens of missed phone calls and messages. Are you okay? Have you seen the news? The phone lights up in my palm.
“Hadi! Where are you?”