CHIVEY

Who invented these faux leather chairs? When it's hot you literally stick to the plastic, your skin slides on its own sweat and you slip right down off the seat. And when it's cold... when it's cold, you're just cold. Like right now. The stupid air conditioner hangs right across from me, blowing freezing air straight at me. Why would anyone turn it up that high…?

"Ow!" Emmy yanked her hand back as a small dark spot spread around the puncture, then brought her wrist up to her face, studying the mark.

Great… another bruise.

A drop fell from the tip of the needle onto the white cotton of her stretched-out wife-beater, the dark red bead sitting on the fabric for a moment, catching the deathly pale light of the lamp. She wiped the drop away with her fingertip, but it only smeared across the fabric, leaving a thick stain behind.

"Look what you did. You ruined my shirt."

A pair of dark eyes above a surgical mask stared at her, heavy black liner making them look almost black.

"You kidding? That shirt’s already ruined." Carmen pushed her smooth hair back with the back of her wrist. "Give me your hand. One IV, that's all." She took Emmy's hand and drew it toward her. "Chivey! Sit still."

"Leave me alone. I said no." Emmy looked down. "And what am I supposed to do about the stain on my shirt? I can’t get it out."

Carmen ripped off her gloves, turned them inside out, and dropped them in the trash; the mask followed. She pulled a marker from her pocket. Leaning over Emmy's knee, she turned the red drop

into a strawberry with a few quick, practiced strokes, then she leaned back and smiled.

"There. Problem solved." She met an angry stare and sighed. "So, what are we going to do? You need this IV. Should we try again?"

"No. I said no. Call Chad. He knows what he's doing. Unlike you."

Carmen stood up and straightened her scrubs. "Fine. You win. I'll go find him." She tucked the marker back into her pocket. "You're always such a handful."

She walked out, pulling the curtain shut behind her.

And she had the nerve to get mad... ruined my shirt, drew that stupid little berry on it. What am I, six years old? And now she probably thinks I'm impossible. That's not fair. My favorite shirt, my cozy white stretched-out shirt...

I wonder why they call it a wife-beater anyway? Did the shirt beat its wife or something? That's stupid...

Emmy leaned back in the chair, raised her arms above her head and stretched. The cold light of the fluorescent lamp seeped through her interlaced fingers, throwing jagged glints across her face. She shifted her palms, brought her fingers together, then spread them apart; the pattern of light shifted, arranging itself into strange ornaments.

A faint tremor ran through her body, rising into her arms, as the lamp shuddered and swayed, flickering in no particular rhythm.

Emmy folded her arms behind her head, crossed at the wrist, then wrapped her palms around her shoulders. She watched the swaying lamp, the dancing shadows tucked into the folds of the curtain.

She closed her eyes. Light filtered through her eyelids, tracing strange pictures out of capillaries.

Emmy yawned wide, her feet already moving, the toes of her boots tapping out a melody.

Shine, shine, shine. Let it shine...

Shine, shine, shine. Let it shine...

So let it shine...

There's nothing complicated about it... a simple melody, just a couple of lines of words. But you want to clap your hands and jump... and dance... and the body becomes so light... it floats... floats... So strange...

She hummed quietly to herself, listening to the tap of her boots.

A soft whistle picked up the melody as a hand in a white glove reached inside the curtain, sliding it back. Chad struck a theatrical pose, a red foam nose fixed on his face. Pressing his palms against an invisible wall, he worked his body into motion as his feet slid into a moonwalk.

"Hey-ho! And who do we have here?"

Emmy sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Come on. I'm not six."

"Are you sure about that? A little angry bird told me someone in here is acting up. Like a small child."

Chad stopped, took off the gloves and nose, and stuffed them into his pocket, then pulled a fresh pair of gloves from a packet and put them on, unwrapping a new needle as he spoke.

"So let it shine — give me your hand, we'll sort this out real quick."

He held out his hand, and after a moment Emmy placed hers in it.

The needle went in carefully, and drop by drop the cold solution moved up through her vein, a strip of medical tape fixed it in place.

Emmy’s eyes drifted across his hands, muscular and sinewy, with well-defined veins.

Thick ropes under blue-black skin...

Chad met her eyes and pressed a finger to his full lips. "Shhhh... Now sit quiet as a mouse. I'll be back soon."

Emmy reached out with her free hand and caught his hand.

"You are black, but comely."

Chad's eyes went wide and he dissolved into a cough. "Hold on, hold on... Well, well..." He wiped the tears from his eyes and burst out laughing. "Girl, you should do stand-up!"

Emmy frowned and bit her lower lip.

"Sit still! Would you look at that — black, but comely." Chad slid the curtain aside. "Black, but comely!" His laughter echoed down the corridor for a long time after.

A suffocating cough broke out in the adjacent stall.

The curtain between the cubicles snapped aside. "Ah-hah, giiiirl! Black, but comely?!" A dark-skinned face peered around it. "You did not just say that."

The woman looked Emmy over from head to toe. "No. No, no, no... I cannot believe what I just heard. Nobody would believe me even if I swore on a Bible. Lord... a little white child quoting the Song of Solomon... How old are you — nine? Ten?"

She adjusted the bright silk scarf on her head and leaned toward Emmy. " I am black, but comely, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon. Isn't that a little advanced for you?"

"I'm not ten at all. I’m almost fourteen. I read what I find," Emmy muttered, tugging the hem of her wife-beater down over her knees.

"Fourteen? You don't look fourteen. Like a little fledgling." The woman yanked the curtain even harder aside and leaned in toward Emmy, her whole body pressing forward. "Oh, at your age I read everything too. Everything — newspapers, magazines, the Bible of course, goes without saying. I even read my older sister's medical textbooks. I was a very well-read child. Very well-read!"

She didn't stop, talked and talked, no pauses, no waiting for an answer. Her hand moved to underscore the importance of her words.

If she stops, she'll die.

Emmy allowed herself a small smile while the woman kept talking, her voice washing past her in a steady stream.

"Now who puts raisins in a potato salad? Raisins! In a salad! No, that is not acceptable. That is not how it's done. A proper potato salad has no raisins, you understand? I use only yellow potatoes, only yellow. And eggs — real eggs, farm eggs. I drive out to my cousin Janet; she has the most wonderful hens. Oh, what hens, what large eggs!.."

Emmy's eyes drifted to the woman's scarf, where bright flowers wove together into a vivid tapestry — large ones, small ones, layered into a wreath. She began picking out the small red ones and counting them.

If I take four long sticks and tape them to my head with duct tape, and then take a scarf like this one, and another scarf, and another one, and another... and wind them around the sticks, wind and wind... I'd be two Emmys tall. I'd be taller than everyone... and I'd probably reach the ceiling with my scarves.

Maybe I'd even look like a supermodel.

Fashionable...

She lost interest and yawned, letting her eyes close.

"And I wore my best dress — crisp taffeta, with a big ruffle along the hem. And a little hat. You know how we Black women are — such a sense of style. Such style! And do you go to Sunday service?"

No answer came. The woman adjusted her scarf and stared at Emmy. Realizing she was being ignored, she fell silent, offended.

The chair shifted. The light flickered, went out, then came back on — the white tile floor moved, dark gaps opening between uneven rows. Something lifted Emmy and carried her away: she flew over green valleys, high hills, crystal-clear lakes. She came down slowly, her toes grazed the buds of wildflowers.

The even rows of tile came into view under the lamp when Emmy opened her eyes. A faint scent of flowers brushed her nose.

"Here I am." Chad rang out. "Time to set you free, little sparrow." He drew the needle out and pressed a cotton pad to her skin. "Make a fist. Like that." He guided Emmy by the elbow, and she rested her palm on his forearm. Her thin arm against the dark skin looked almost transparent.

My arm is like a pale fish on black sand.

She turned away and brushed a tear from her cheek with her finger.

Chad got her to her feet and draped her cardigan over her shoulders. "Can you walk on your own?" Emmy nodded.

The woman next door stirred, leaning out from behind the curtain to catch Chad’s arm, her eyes squinting with pain. "Sweetheart, could you bring me a warm blanket? It's so cold in here, so cold..." She adjusted the scarf on her head. "I'm not complaining — Jesus gives me strength. But my bones are aching."

"Of course, Mrs. Jackson. I'll just walk this young lady to the corridor and I'll be right back with a blanket."

Mrs. Jackson settled back in her chair. "God bless your sweet heart, child." She raised her hand, palm open.

Chad walked Emmy down the corridor, his hand on her shoulder. "I'll sit you over there, by the window. You like looking out at the yard, don't you?" She said nothing.

The ceiling light trembled, flared brightly a few times, and went out — Chad looked up at it. "Probably burned out. Or maybe the wiring. This wing of the building is pretty old."

Emmy scanned the ceiling, paneled with perforated tiles. "Those little holes... It's like they're watching us. Maybe rats chewed through the wires up there."

He laughed. "Wild imagination. Nothing up there. Maybe a couple of house centipedes hiding out... You scared of insects?"

Insects...? No. No… What if something’s living up in those holes? All those tiny clinging legs crawling over my bare head… Yuck. Disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. Swarms of spiders in there… nests… one of them bites me…

She shuddered. "What if something nasty actually falls out of those holes? Right onto my head?"

"Don't worry, I'll grab a newspaper and fold you a printer's hat. It'll protect your head from any uninvited visitors."

Behind them, the dead lamp flared back to life; Chad glanced back. "See, everything's fine. Just a little short circuit. Look, there's an open bench right by the window. Let's go."

He settled her onto the bench. "Wait here. Carmen will come soon and take you to Dr. Harper." Straightening the cardigan on her shoulders, he left.

Emmy looked around — the wide corridor was filled with sunlight pouring through the large windows.

A heavy buzzing sounded near her ear, a fat blowfly sweeping over her head in wide circles.

You're the last thing I needed here…