I suddenly remembered the last thing they had said to me on the one day we had met. They’d asked if I wanted to come live with them for a while. The question had left me perplexed for a long time. Who wants to take care of a kid who can’t be toilet trained? Maybe want is too strong of a term to use, but it seemed like they were at least willing to tolerate my incontinence.
I fidgeted in the bed as the seconds ticked by. Hope. That’s what I’m feeling right now. That’s what I’m trying so hard not to feel right now. It’s a feeling that’s let me down almost every time I’ve experienced it, until I let myself become jaded so as to avoid any crushing disappointment. I knew, intellectually, that my aunt and uncle were here. Attorney’s aren’t supposed to lie, or at least, not to their clients. Same goes for therapists and nurses. But emotionally, I wasn’t prepared – I didn’t know how to prepare – for a moment where my hopes actually, really, came true.
But that moment came. The attorney returned to the room a few minutes later, with my aunt and uncle closely trailing behind him. I didn’t say a single word. I just leaped up from the bed, sprinted across the hospital room and flung myself into my aunt’s arms so strongly that she nearly fell backwards.
“Everything is going to be OK now,” my aunt said.
“Annabelle,” the nurse said, trying to get my attention. “It’s going to be a several hour car ride to where your aunt and uncle live, so why don’t you gather your things and get ready for the trip. I have a couple of things to go over with them.”
I nodded. By telling me to get ready I knew she was referencing that I needed to check if my pull-up needed to be changed, and I was grateful she didn’t explicitly say that out loud.