Mommy appears. “Come in, come in quickly,” she whispers, flapping her hand. We scurry in, confused by the cloak-and-dagger attitude
I try to breathe through my mouth as we ride to the second floor, but I can still smell it: antiseptic, lemon, and sickness. I hate hospitals. Hate them.
I used to cry when Daddy would take me to visit Mommy after she had a baby. I got over that, but this isn’t the nursery, this is inpatient rehab and it’s sad and depressing. I catch a glimpse of myself in the elevator mirror. My ribbed, rust-colored sweater is totally on point, and practically singing “autumn,” and my hair looks thick and full, but honestly, I’d rather have it pulled into a bun on top of my head, and be working on my cabrioles. Shayna told me I had the technique down pat, now I just needed to add some grace to it. I grimace at the memory.
“What?” Chemia asks, startled. I blink, I’d forgotten where I am. We get out of the elevator and start walking toward Babby’s room.
“Nothing,” I say, smiling at my little brother. At 12, Chemia is the brother I’m closest in age with, and we’re pretty tight. Naftoli is three years older, at 17 he’s annoying and a know-it-all, but between me and my ballet shoes, he happens to be brilliant. Shimshon slips his pudgy hand into mine and I grin down at him. His curls are incredible, thick and golden, and it’s hard to believe that in just one week they’re coming right off.
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