The Mandala Girl (COMPLETED)

Chapter 6

I hate hospitals. Like, hate them. More than broccoli. More than sick days. More than snoring. More than—well, you get the idea.

When I was eight, I had to have a tonsillectomy. Yes, it's as bad as it sounds. I don't remember much about it; just little blips and images of the event. And pain. Lots and lots of pain. I remember that part quite clearly. The only good thing about that whole nightmare was not having to go to school the following week, and I got to enjoy all the Oreo flavored ice cream I could get my hands on.

This is different. It's scarier. Tonsillitis is one thing, but a concussion—that's a lot more serious. People can die from concussions, or at least that was the fun tidbit mom just had to tell me when I woke up this morning. She asked me how I was feeling. I told her I felt a little dizzy. I knew it was a huge mistake once those words left my lips, but by then it was too late. I followed up saying I felt fine, but she still insisted that we at least get my head x-rayed and my hand looked at.

So here we are.

I'm sitting on an examination table in one of the many rooms at Brookridge Hospital, awaiting my test results. When I arrived, they practically forced me into a hideous hospital gown. We can put man on the moon, but we're still unable to make hospital gowns even remotely fashionable. After waiting nearly three hours in the crowded waiting room, a female doctor ushered me into a side room with a plaque on the door marked Radiology and Imaging. From there, she stuffed me inside a cylindrical-shaped object that looked like it was used as a stage prop in Star Trek and proceeded to radiate my brain. I now have a higher level of compassion for popcorn when it's in the microwave.

Mom is sitting in an uncomfortable-looking armchair across from me. Her concerned facial expressions cause me to worry more than I already am. I'm fine. I feel fine. I don't have internal bleeding in my skull. So why do I feel the need to convince myself over and over that I'm fine? What is weird, however, is that I haven't heard the voices since last night. They seem to come and go as they please. Or maybe the crashed knocked them loose from my brain.

My eyes pass over the rest of the room, ultimately falling over my hand. It's still secured by the brace mom had given me last night. That's when I notice a black smear mark across my forearm. I inspect it more closely. It's TJ's phone number! Between the strange voices and the car crash, I forgot to wash it off.

The door opens and the doctor who fried my brain thirty minutes ago re-enters the room, softly closing the door behind her. There's something off about her aura. She seems mentally preoccupied like she's unsure how to deliver forthcoming news. My eyes drift to the clipboard in her hand—my heart skips a hard beat. It's my test results! Oh, great. It's bad. It's very bad. I just know it. I probably have the worst concussion they've ever seen, and I'm probably gonna die. Like, tomorrow.

The doctor looks up and smiles. "You're all right, dear," she says cheerfully. A huge sigh of relief drains from my lungs. "Other than a small bump on your head, you're in the best of health."

"Oh, g-good. And my hand?" I hold it up in display.

"Just a bruise is all; no broken bones or fracture. You can remove the brace as soon as next week."

"Thank you. Can I go now?"

"Yes, of course. You just need to sign some release papers on your way out." She turns for the door and leaves the room.

I hop off the examination table and proceed over to the privacy curtain where I change back into my street clothes. There wasn't time this morning to check on the mysterious chest and I'm eager to get back home. I want to examine it more closely.

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" mom says. I peek my head out from behind the curtain. She has a hand place over her heart, staring up at the office ceiling tiles above.