The Way We Were

Her skin looks pale, I thought. Milky. You'd never guess she lives in Florida. I can't remember the last time she put make-up on. If it weren't for the dusting of freckles on her shoulders and cheeks, her paleness would allude death. Or dying.

The room is maybe twice the size of a prison cell. Maybe. Thin bed, two pillows, heavily starched sheets and pillowcases. All white. The blanket, cream, heavier than it looks. Linoleum floor, cold on the feet, so they give you rubber flip-flops. Made in Taiwan. Then there is a single dresser. Four drawers. It matches the heavy blanket. No lamps. Those are dangerous. At least, they can be dangerous. I know that, but I don't know if she does. No, wait, we both know it. It's the same reason the mirror isn't made of glass; it's a reflective sheet behind plexiglass. It would be hard to put make-up on if she even wanted to. But she can't. For the same reason they won't give her a real toothbrush.

There are echoes of chatter bouncing off the hallway walls. I look at her. She looks at me.

"Don't be frightened," I tell her. "You're going to get through this, and you're going to be all better, you'll see."

She doesn't seem convinced. She stares at me, knowing it's going to hurt; knowing that this whole mess is her fault, not mine.

"I'm doing this for your own good."

The voices grow louder as they approach the doorway. A paunchy man in all white speaks up, and I see his reflection in the mirror.

"Miss Riley," he says, "We're here to bring you to your treatment."