I think mom pictures everyone in the hospital going around talking about her, saying what a dirty whore Mrs. Memel is. Saying her well-put-together exterior is nothing but a lie.

Her dying thought at the scene of an accident would be: How long have I been wearing these panties? Are there any wet spots on them?

The first thing doctors and EMTs do with a bleeding accident victim, before starting to resuscitate? They have a peek at the blood-soaked underwear so they know what kind of woman they’ve got on their hands.

From the wall behind me Robin pulls out a cable with a call button on the end of it. He lays it on the pillow next to my face. I won’t need that.

I look around my room. The walls are painted light green — so light it’s barely perceptible. Supposed to be calming. Or optimistic.

To the left of my bed is a built-in wardrobe. I don’t have anything to put in it, but someone will bring me things soon, I’m sure. Beyond the wardrobe the room goes on around, probably to the bathroom — or let’s call it the shower room.

Between my bed and the wardrobe is a rolling metal nightstand with a drawer. It’s extra tall so you can get at it from the high hospital bed.

To the right is a long bank of windows hung with white, see-through curtains that are weighted at the bottom to keep them hanging crisply. They’ve got to look neat and straight. Like concrete. They mustn’t billow in the breeze if the window is open. On the sill is the container of diapers and, next to it, a box with one hundred pairs of rubber gloves in it. It says so on the box. Though there’s probably fewer than that in there now.

On the wall opposite me is a framed poster — you can see the little metal tabs that hold the glass. It’s a photo of a tree-lined avenue, and written in yellow letters at the top it says, Walk with Jesus. What — take him for a stroll?

A small crucifix hangs over the doorway. Someone has decorated it with a bough. Why do they do that?

Careful, Helen. Don’t do anything stupid.

The boughs are always from the same kind of plant. The kind with little arched leaves, dark green, with an artificial shine to them. The boughs always look like they’re made out of plastic, but they always turn out to be real. I think they come from some kind of hedge.

Why do they stick pieces of greenery on crosses? The poster and the crucifix have got to go. I’ll convince mom to take them down. I’m already looking forward to that discussion. Mom’s a practicing Catholic. Wait. I’ve forgotten something. Up high is a TV. I hadn’t looked up there. It’s suspended in a metal frame and tipped way down toward me. It looks as if it could fall on me at any moment. I’ll ask Robin to shake it later. Just to make sure it’s secure. If there’s a TV, there must be a remote — or do I have to get somebody to turn it on and off for me? Maybe it’s in the drawer. I reach over and pull it open and am suddenly aware of my ass. Careful, Helen. Don’t do anything stupid.

The remote is in a plastic compartment in the drawer. Everything’s cool. Except the anesthesia is wearing off. Do I need to ring and ask for painkillers already?

Maybe it won’t be that bad. Right, I’ll wait a bit and see how I feel. I’ll try to keep my mind on something else. Like, say, the last unicorn. That won’t work. I clench my teeth. My mind is fixated on my wounded ass. I’m tensing up all over. Especially in my shoulders. My good mood has disappeared. Robin was right. I don’t want to come across as a whiner, though — especially after yapping so much to Robin. I can hold out a little longer. I close my eyes. I put one hand gently on my bandaged ass and the other on the call button. I lie there and the pain throbs. The anesthesia is getting weaker and weaker. The wound burns. My muscles cramp. The throbbing gets faster.