Free Grief Girl by Erin Vincent Page B

change.” Smile.
    â€œOoh yes, I love the peanut butter ones too.” Smile.
    It comes out of nowhere. I finish serving and walk behind the huge metal cookie-making machine, where on a usual day I would stand and eat uncooked dough. But this isn’t usual. I start to cry. I can’t seem to do anything these days without bursting into tears at some point. It’s ridiculous. I need to get some control.
    â€œAre you okay, luv?”
    I turn and see the bakery lady with the dyed red hair styled high on her head. The nest of hair frames her tiny face, and with her long eyelashes and blue eye shadow she looks like a country singer.
    I try to act calm, but it all comes pouring out. The accident, Dad in the hospital, the funeral, Tracy, Trent…everything. We lean on the metal beam between the two shops and talk until I’m smiling again. At the end of her shift she gives me extra ham-and-cheese bread to take home. My old favorite. I get as much as I want.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â 
    Dad’s getting better, so it’s time for him to move to another hospital closer to home.
    â€œHow’s he going to get there?” I ask.
    â€œIn an ambulance,” Tracy says, exasperated. What did I think, we were going to shove him in the back of the red VW with his legs sticking out the window?
    The new hospital is only twenty minutes from home and five minutes from Grandma and Grandpa’s. It’s nothing like the one he just came from. I’d only give this hospital a one-star rating.
    In the first hospital he had his own room, but here there are lots of other men coughing and spluttering. It’s miserable.
    His room is beige, beige, and beige, and the floor is cold beige linoleum, unlike the nice carpet at the other hospital. His bed at the other hospital was wood (well, fake wood, but still); here it’s cold metal. I guess I shouldn’t complain. In some countries you have to pay a lot of money to stay in the hospital. In Australia you get to stay for free. Maybe that’s why the TV commercials say we’re “the lucky country.”
    Dad looks so much better, and the doctors say he’s improving rapidly. He’s still crying and apologizing all the time, but maybe this change of scenery will help.
    Evelyn visits. She’s just walked into his hospital room in a pretty floral dress, all made up with eye shadow, rosy cheeks and lips. I’ve never seen her wear makeup before. She’s awkward and giggly. She has a bit of lipstick on her teeth. Should I tell her? I’d want to be told. Do I really want to add embarrassment to her sorrows right now? Sometimes maybe it’s better not to know.
    Poor Evelyn must be having a really hard time over Mum. Mum was always there for her during her many unhappy times. I really feel for her, pretending to be all happy and putting on a brave face for Dad. She must be going through a lot. She’s known Mum and Dad even longer than I have.
    I can’t even remember how many family holidays Mum made us spend in the far-out suburbs for Evelyn’s sake. When her husband hit her. When he left her. When they got divorced. When she couldn’t afford decent food. When her three boys were acting up and didn’t have a father to bring them in line. We were all there.
    I wish she’d stop giggling and joking with Dad, though. It’s sad. I think it would be better if she just cried and let it out. It must be getting to Tracy, too.
    â€œI’m going to get a drink. Do you want to come, Erin?” Tracy says firmly, like it’s not really a question.
    â€œCan you believe her?” Tracy whispers the moment we’re outside Dad’s room.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou don’t see what’s happening? What she’s doing?” she asks.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThe makeup? The flirting?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œForget it.” And she storms off to the hospital cafeteria