The Palm of My Hand

I trace the lifeline on her palm, my fingers trembling slightly. Her skin is cool, too cool, and the fluorescent lights of the emergency room cast everything in a harsh, clinical glow. I've been running from shift to shift for three days now, surviving on coffee and adrenaline and the vitamin D supplements my sister keeps leaving in my locker, telling me I'm going to get rickets from never seeing the sun.

"You don't have to bear this alone," I say, though the words feel hollow. I say them to everyone now—the overdosed teenagers, the heart attack victims, the ones who come in with eyes glassy and vacant, like zombies moving through some nightmare I can't see. They're all just bodies waiting for me to fix them.

Her fingers curl around mine, sudden and sharp. "You look tired too."

The truth of it knocks the wind out of me. I am tired. I'm tired of the way the hospital smells like antiseptic and despair, tired of the way my own pulse races every time I see trauma alert on the monitor, tired of running toward danger when everyone else runs away.

"I'm fine," I lie.

She laughs, a dry, rattling sound. "We're all fine until we're not." She releases my hand and turns her face toward the window, where a single palm tree sways in the wind outside. "I used to have a palm tree in my yard. My mother said it would grow strong if I watered it with my tears. That's the kind of thing mothers tell you when you're eight and everything hurts."

Something in my chest cracks open. I think about the vitamins I forget to take, about the way I've been moving through my life like one of the walking dead—present but not really there. Running on empty.

"My mother died last week," she says softly. "I haven't told anyone yet."

The confession hangs between us, fragile and terrible. I squeeze her hand, feeling the fragile beat of her pulse against my fingertips. This time, I don't offer empty words. I just bear witness.

Outside, the palm tree keeps swaying, resilient against the wind. Somewhere in this hospital, in this city, in this world, people are running toward or away from the things that will break them. I'm still running, but for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually want to stop.

"I'm sorry," I say, and mean it.

She nods, closing her eyes. "Me too."