Better than Perfect. Melissa Kantor

of glass. The paramedics said there was water and a broken glass on the floor of the bathroom.”

      Even in the midst of my confusion, I felt a wave of relief so powerful my knees buckled. “So you’re saying she didn’t try to kill herself?”

      But Ms. Phillips was looking at my father. “Do you know anything about your wife’s medication? We’re trying to figure out if she might have accidentally taken more than she was prescribed or if this was an intentional overdose.”

      “I’m not living at home right now,” said my father. Ms. Phillips nodded and made a note on her paper. “But she has sometimes … abused prescription medication in the past. And she’s not always careful about mixing drugs and alcohol.”

      “What? That’s not true.” I turned to Ms. Phillips. “It’s not true,” I said again.

      “Juliet,” said my father firmly, “I’m sorry, but it is true.”

      I kept talking to Ms. Phillips. “She’s been depressed off and on all summer because my father left.” I spoke quickly, as if I might not have the chance to finish before my father cut me off.

      “I see,” said Ms. Phillips, and when she wrote something down, I felt like I’d convinced her to believe me and not my dad.

      “Juliet, you are mixing apples and oranges,” said my father. “I’m sorry. I want to respect your mother’s privacy, but this is something the people who are treating her have to know.”

      I stared at my father, seething, as Ms. Phillips finished writing. Then she flipped the folder closed. “The attending psychiatrist has suggested your wife be admitted to the hospital’s psychiatric unit so we can evaluate her. He’ll be out to speak to you soon, but I’d like to get us started on the paperwork so we can transfer her as soon as she’s ready. If you could come with me, I’ll get the insurance information I need.” She nodded toward the door.

      My father rubbed the side of his face as if he had a headache, then realized Ms. Phillips couldn’t get past him. “Sorry,” he said, and he opened the door and held it politely for Ms. Phillips and me to pass through.

      In the hallway, Ms. Phillips started to head back the way we had come, but I said, “Wait.” She turned around.

      “I want to see her.”

      My father and Ms. Phillips were both looking at me. My father spoke first. “Juliet, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

      I kept my eyes on Ms. Phillips. I knew if I looked at my dad, I’d lose my courage. “I want to see her.”

      “I understand,” said Ms. Phillips. She put her hand on my arm again, and I had the crazy urge to ask if she would let me go home with her.

      I followed Ms. Phillips back into the waiting area, through an enormous set of double doors, and down a wide corridor. There were empty stretchers and gurneys up against the walls, and I wondered if one of them was the one my mom had come in on.

      I’d assumed Ms. Phillips was taking me to a hospital room, but she led me through another, smaller set of double doors, which opened up onto a space bigger than the waiting room. There was a central island with doctors and nurses in it, and all around the outer wall were beds, some of which were curtained off. A symphony of rhythmic beeps filled the space. An older man was on a bed directly in front of me with two elderly women, one on either side of him. One of the women was crying; the other was rocking slightly. I wondered what was wrong with him, and then one of the women turned slightly and saw me watching them. I looked away, embarrassed to have been caught spying.

      Ms. Phillips led me around to the right of the island. When we got to an area where the curtains were closed, she stopped walking.

      “She’s in here,” said Ms. Phillips. “Why don’t I come in with you?”

      It wasn’t until she offered to stay with me that I realized how scared I was to see my mother alone, which was almost worse than anything else that had happened that day.

      “She’ll probably be asleep,” said Ms. Phillips. “But if she isn’t, we’ll just stay a minute and then come on out. Her throat’s probably sore from when they pumped her stomach, so it will be hard for her to talk.”

      I stepped through the curtain behind Ms. Phillips, picturing as I did what it meant to pump somebody’s stomach. My own stomach clenched in sympathy.

      My mother was lying on the bed, propped up slightly on two pillows. They must have taken off her T-shirt, because she was in a hospital gown under some blankets. There was a hairnet over her hair, but a few strands had come out, and they were spread out over the pillow like my mom had put her finger in an electrical outlet. She was asleep, and I watched her chest rise up and down slowly. By the fourth breath I realized I was breathing with her, almost as if she couldn’t do it on her own.

      Almost as if I was afraid she didn’t want to do it on her own.

      I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Ms. Phillips put her hand on my shoulder. “We should go, honey.”

      I nodded, my throat too thick to try to talk. My mom’s arms lay along her sides, and on the wrist nearest me I saw a hospital bracelet and a ring of dark blue fabric, almost like a ribbon but thicker and closed with what looked like Velcro. I looked at the other wrist, and there was one there also.

      “What are those?” I asked, pointing at the blue fabric and clearing my throat. But even before Ms. Phillips answered me, I knew exactly what they were. They were restraints. My mother was literally tied to her bed.

      Ms. Phillips put her hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. “Those are so she won’t hurt herself, honey.”

      “Are they …” I took a breath, but taking deep breaths wasn’t enough to stop myself from crying anymore. “Are they going to leave them on?” I imagined what it would be like to wake up and find your hands tied to the bed, attempting to jerk them free and finding they were too tightly bound for you to get out of them. I imagined my mother screaming for someone to come get her, how with her wild hair and tied-up wrists she’d seem crazy to whoever answered her call.

      But of course maybe she was crazy. That was the whole reason she was lying here in the first place.

      “We should go,” Ms. Phillips said again, and this time I let her lead me out of the curtained area, back through the big room, and down the hall. It was a relief to have her guide my steps. I didn’t know where I was going, and I was crying too hard to see even if I did.

      Ms. Phillips waited while I washed my face in the bathroom, then walked me through the second set of double doors. She pointed out my dad, who was at the opposite end of the room talking through a wall of Plexiglas to the man at the desk. I wanted to give Ms. Phillips a hug, but she reached out her hand, and so I shook it.

      “Good luck, Juliet,” she said. “I know this is very hard. But we’ll figure out exactly what happened, and then your mom’s going to get whatever help she needs.” I thanked her, said good-bye, and headed over to my dad.

      He was giving the man all of the information I’d been unable to provide, and I stood a few feet away from him and listened while he talked. My mom’s date of birth. Her social security number. Her primary care physician.

      What else did my father know about my mother that I didn’t?

      When he’d finished, he came to where I was standing. “Hi,” he said. He looked tired. Maybe not as tired as my mother, but way more tired than he had an hour ago.

      “Why did you say that stuff about Mom?” I asked, my arms folded across my chest.

      “Juliet, I know there are things we need to talk about, but”—he glanced around the crowded emergency room—“this might not be the best place to have this discussion.”

      “I’d say it’s the perfect place!”

      “Please don’t make a scene,