Falling With Grace

Holding my hand tighter, I stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror.

It’d only been a few hours since I’d last dared to look at myself, and although nothing had changed, I still didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror.

Black circles welled beneath my eyes, and my sunken cheeks highlighted my prominent cheekbones.

A short line of stitches hid in my hairline beside my temple, and small scabs across my forehead and cheeks stuck out against the red raised edges.

Is it normal to not recognize the body I grew up in?

I glanced down at my hand, the blood oozing like thick sludge.

Good enough.

I tossed the paper in the trash, grabbed the white plastic bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door, tore off the hospital gown with buttons on the shoulders, and dressed in the oversized clothing I arrived in, my rosary still tucked in my pants pocket.

My arm remained tucked inside my shirt as I slipped on my shoes, then grabbed my half-eaten pudding and snuck out of the door.

Nurses worked at their stations, their eyes never wavering from their computer screens. A woman stood in front of the patient’s whiteboard with a doctor and chatted, their arms crossed over their chests.

A slow smile crept up my lips as I shuffled away from my hospital room, down the hall, and out the tall glass front doors.

Fresh air slithered up my sinuses and filled my lungs, eliminating the sterile, filtered hospital air. I stood for a beat, taking in the parking lot, the bright blue sky with a smattering trace of gray clouds and the field of dried grasses and brush. A white metal fence bordered the hospital parking lot in a curious fashion, as though they wanted to keep people in.

Or were they trying to keep people out?

Cars rushed by on the two-lane road at a decent clip. Boys and girls sat beneath the shaded shelter waiting for the public transit, wearing khaki pants and white shirts while the girls sported plaid skirts and knee-high socks.

Peace.

No more screams.

No more crying.

No more pain.

I was free.

Tears burned my eyes as I walked through the parking lot and wandered the streets littered with trash.

A homeless camp with tarps, tents, and shopping carts was in the middle of a field wrapping around the city.

Maybe they’d know where to get a bite to eat.

My mother used to say the men and women who lived on the streets were the most resourceful in our broken society. They knew where to get food, what building was the best for shelter, and what people to stay away from. Most of them were good-hearted folks who were down on their luck, suffered from mental illness or addiction, or preferred the streets to living the nine-to-five.

I walked for twenty minutes before turning down a road that wasn’t much different than the one across the border. Residents parked their cars on the side of the street and palm trees ran in a straight line. A cell tower stood in the distance, and the power lines hummed.

A pulsating ache throbbed through my weary feet while sharp tendrils of pain shot up the back of my ankles. I sat on the unforgiving cement steps that led up to a Catholic church, its walls standing tall behind me, akin to an impenetrable fortress.

The sun beat down its powerful rays, forming beads of sweat against my brow.

How could I sleep in this weather?

I reached down and tugged off my shoe with a grimace. Blood smeared along my ankle from a large, opened blister. I wiggled my toes, then took off the next one with the same results.

Walking the streets without shoes on wasn’t such a big deal. I’d run for three days without them in the woods with prevalent desert cacti and thorns hidden within the dirt. If I could do it there, I could do it on paved sidewalks.

The doors behind me opened, and two elderly women wearing all black as though in mourning stepped out, their gaze avoidant of me sitting on the steps as they talked among themselves.