Free My Life in Black and White by Natasha Friend Page A

she was… I threw ice cream at the wall when they were here.”
    Dr. Kamath nodded as if this made perfect sense. Then, out of nowhere, she started talking about some author I’d never heard of who wrote some book about dying.
    “The process by which people deal with grief can be broken down into five distinct stages. Denial , the first stage, is usually a temporary—”
    “Jarrod didn’t die,” I cut in. “He just broke his collarbone.”
    Silence for a moment. Then Dr. Kamath explained that she wasn’t talking about Jarrod. She was talking about me.
    I gave her what must have been the world’s blankest stare, because she went off on some crazy tangent about grief coming in many forms and traumatic injuries being a kind of death. “Traumatic facial injuries,” she continued, “like the one you’ve endured, can be particularly devastating, triggering feelings of loss not unlike those felt after the loss of a loved one.”
    While Dr. Kamath psycho-babbled on, I focused on her teeth, which at first had seemed just a tad yellowish, but now appeared to be getting yellower by the second. She must drink a butt-load of tea, I thought. I pictured the bleaching trays that my mother, also a tea drinker, kept on her bedside table and used religiously. Maybe I should share this information with Dr. Kamath. She might not realize what an easy fix it was. Just pop ’em in your mouth at night, and in the morning … voilà!
    “Alexa? Does what I’m saying make sense to you?”
    “Mm-hm,” I nodded. “Absolutely.”
    Dr. Kamath jotted something down on her notepad. Why does patient insist on lying? Or, Why are patient’s shorts unbuttoned? Are shorts too small for rapidly expanding waistline? What has patient been eating?
    “So,” Dr. Kamath said, glancing up from her pad again. “Would you like to look in a mirror now, with me? Or would your prefer to do it back in your room, with your family?”
    Um. What?
    “It’s your decision,” she went on, “as long as you take that first step here, at the hospital, where you have a support system.”
    And if I refuse? I wanted to ask. Then what? You won’t let me go home? But I already knew the answer.
    I thought about the girl I’d seen in the elevator, on my way here. She was maybe seven or eight, and her entire head and neck were covered in pink, shiny scars—thick and raised, like mountain ranges on a relief map. I knew I shouldn’t stare, and I tried not to, but I couldn’t help myself. I kept thinking, No way can I look that bad. I didn’t get burned. I still have hair.
    “Alexa,” Dr. Kamath said gently. “Seeing your new self is the first step toward healing. Toward accepting your loss.”
    I wanted to tell her that I didn’t lose anything. I was still here. Still me. “Listen,” I tried to explain, making my voice calm, my words deliberate. “I’m not planning to kill myself, so if the hospital’s worried about getting sued, they can relax.”
    Dr. Kamath raised her eyebrows.
    “My dad’s a lawyer.”
    “Oh?”
    “Uh-huh. A public defender. Which is, like, a really important job … He’s taking time off to be here. Otherwise, you know, he’d be in court.”
    “Ah.” She nodded.
    “Yeah,” I said, picking at a stray thread on the hem of my shorts. “So I know all about liability and negligence and … you know … all that stuff.” My voice trailed off. Words seemed pointless, suddenly. I didn’t want to talk, yet I didn’t know what else to do, so I yanked at the thread on my shorts. Yanked and yanked until it broke free.
    “Alexa,” Dr. Kamath said softly. “I have a mirror, right here in my desk. Why don’t we look together?”
    I shook my head, thinking no way was I going to do this. Not here. Not now. No fucking way.
    I tried to think of my options, and I floundered. Because there weren’t any. What was I supposed to do? Stay in the hospital forever? Break every mirror on Earth?
    Finally, I looked up from my shorts and gave Dr.