Read The Me You See for Free Online Page B

like
some corn husk that was tossed on the ground to wither away.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she had died.”
    “She didn’t. She left.”
    Stefia wound her right foot around the leg of her chair,
slipping her moccasin off and on, off and on.
    “Where do you get your support?” I asked. “I mean, if your
mom is gone and your dad is…”
    “…completely detached?”
    “Yeah. Where was your support? Who raised you up?”
    Stefia set her mug down and pushed her thumb back and forth
across the side of it like she was trying to rub off a stain.
    “The theater,” she said.
    She kept rubbing at that spot on her mug. I was pretty sure
it was a flaw in the ceramic but she was determined to rub it out.
    “So…you’ve been raised and had all your support from…a
stage?”
    “Not just the stage,” she said, giving up on the spot and
picking up the mug to take a short but thoughtful sip. “The theater isn’t just
a stage. It’s people and…an energy. I’ve been raised by those who have watched
me. And by people I’ve watched. I see a lot from up on stage. The audience
speaks volumes without saying a word.”
    Then she smiled at me.
    “Don’t let your son get you down,” she continued. “Kids
screw up. It’s what we do.”
    I let out a sarcastic snort and picked up my mug.
    “I don’t believe that you, Stefia, even possess the
capability to screw up.”
    She looked at me with a slightly crooked smile that I
didn’t think could possibly show up on her pretty face.
    “Oh, Heidi,” she said, taking a slow sip of what was left
in her mug. “You would be surprised.”
    **
    A week later, after talking a teen mom-to-be through an
epidural, Amanda caught me in the hallway by the arm.
    “Oh my god, did you hear?”
    She pulled me into an alcove, twisting my arm as she yanked
me further into the corner. I opened my mouth to yell at her but when our eyes
met, I realized her face had lost all color except for a mascara streak on her cheek.
    “There was a shooting…at the theater…just twenty minutes
ago.  Oh my god…”
    It spilled out of her mouth in between gasps that got more
shallow every time she tried to speak.
    “Amanda, slow down. Take a breath.”
    “There was a goddamn shooting!” she yelled. “At the
theater!”
    “What theater?” I yelled back, assuming she meant one of
the three movie theaters near the hospital.
    “The Crystal Plains Theater.”
    Amanda leaned against the wall and then slumped down until
she sat on the floor. Immediately the questions spun through my head: how many
people were dead? Was the shooting inside? Outside? Did the shooter aim at the
audience? The actors on stage?
    Oh. God.
    Maryanne stuck her head around the corner of the alcove.
She looked at Amanda, who stared blankly at the carpet with tears dripping off
her chin.
    “Pull yourself together,” Maryann hissed at Amanda. “If
you’re going to freak out, do it in the nurse’s lounge.”
    Then Maryanne looked to me.
    “Room 317 is ready to deliver. I need you.”
    I nodded on complete autopilot, following Maryanne and
passing through the door of 317 to assist with the chaos of birth. I encouraged
and instructed and as I did my job, realized there was something uncomfortably
disjointed about helping to deliver a baby and, at the same time, waiting on the
names of the dead.
    Life is kind of strange that way.
    Eight hours later as the sun was just coming up, I walked
out of the hospital. I stood on the sidewalk, using my phone to stream live
video of the press conference about the shooting. My hands shook as I waited.
The police chief wasn’t talking fast enough. They weren’t…
    When they read Stefia’s name, my cell phone dropped from my
hand and hit the sidewalk, the screen shattering.
    It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.
    I collapsed to my knees, the cold of the sidewalk biting
through my scrubs. A guy in a puffy orange jacket who was walking past stopped
and bent down to help me up.
    “Hey lady,