Maybe I’d never really seen me either.
On Thursday, I went to Four West.
I didn’t sneak.
I didn’t need to.
I signed in at the desk like any other visitor.
I wrote Lauren Cole.
Nobody stopped me.
Denise saw me and just nodded toward the end of the hall.
Room 412.
The door was open.
A little girl sat up in the bed with a sketchpad on her knees.
Thin.
Pale.
A pink knit hat pulled down over her ears.
A line taped into her arm.
She was drawing a horse.
The same kind of horse Poppy draws.
Legs too long.
Mane like a bonfire.
A woman slept in the chair beside the bed.
Diner uniform.
Name tag still pinned on.
Rachel.
The girl looked up at me.
“Are you a doctor?”
“No.”
“Are you a social worker?”
“No.”
“Good,” she said.
“The social worker talks too much.”
I laughed.
