Sometimes I Lie

It is Friday, four days after the accident. Amber’s husband and sister keep her company, but Amber feels the emotional distance: “Our lies form a mortar, holding the walls together […] we’ve built ourselves a prison” (120). Amber gathers from conversations between the two that she has had a pregnancy loss, a girl, as a result of the accident. She spirals into grief and panic, fearing that perhaps she may never come out from the coma. She imagines she is being buried along with the little girl in the pink dressing gown. The little girl calmly tells Amber if she does not want to be buried alive, she needs to point her finger. She does, and her sister notices the movement.

Given that encouraging sign, Amber is taken off the ventilator, and she breathes on her own. She feels herself flying, her perception of being moved through the hospital corridors for tests. She is aware she is being pushed a bit too quickly. She hears the same strange voice from earlier whisper to her that he must take better care to administer the right amount of drugs to keep her comatose. She is returned to her room.