BENCHED by Abigail Graham

and tells the receptionist what happened and a nurse takes us back. I lower Carrie onto a gurney and my throat tightens as they snap one of those identifier wristbands on her.
    The nurses raise her foot and put ice on it. Every time Carrie moves her leg, she whimpers. Her eyes are red and her cheeks streaked with tears. Phoebe holds her little hand tightly and strokes her hair.
    “You’re going to be fine, honey,” she tells her.
    I feel like I’m going to throw up.
    I hate hospitals. Absolutely hate them. I can barely stand being in here, it makes my skin crawl. The bright lights, that chemical smell, the dry air. My hands twitch.
    “You don’t have to stay,” Phoebe tells me.
    “I want to.”
    I follow them into a room. It’s really just an alcove with a curtain. I pace the floor while Phoebe hops onto the bed and sits with her daughter, holding her hand.
    “Mom, it hurts,” she whimpers.
    The words strike my back like a whip. It feels like my spine is clenching. I hate hospitals.
    Can’t they be any fucking faster?
    Carrie ends up getting a juice cup and sitting there for two hours before they wheel her away.
    “You may as well wait here,” the nurse tells us. “She’ll be fine. We’ll do an MRI, no pain.”
    Phoebe nods.
    When Carrie is gone she almost collapses. She’s a complete wreck. For an awkward moment I hold back, then I gingerly rest my hand on the small of her back.
    “She’ll be okay. She probably just twisted it. Screaming because she was scared.”
    Phoebe nods.
    I want to get closer, to put my arms around her. Suddenly she looks tiny and vulnerable. Is she always like that on the inside, under the tough front?
    “You okay?”
    “Yeah,” she chokes out, and the vulnerability vanishes beneath her usual posture, the way she carries herself, like she’ll walk through you if you give her any shit.
    “You don’t have to be ‘on,’ right now. She’s not here.”
    Phoebe gives me an odd look. “What?”
    “You don’t have to wear your game face all the time. It’s okay to be upset. Your kid is hurt.”
    She shrugs off my hand. “I’m not a damsel in distress.”
    “I know, but…” I can’t think of anything else to say. But what?
    I pace the hall while Phoebe sits in the side chair, looking broken and exhausted until Carrie rolls back in followed by a doctor.
    “She’s going to be fine,” he says to Phoebe. “She needs to ice it for a few days and rest. It’s not a sprain, but it was close.”
    Phoebe nods, relief plain on her face.
    “Thank you.”
    “I’d give her Advil, but not too much. Don’t give her more than four a day, every six hours or four hours while she’s awake.”
    Phoebe nods.
    “It’ll keep the swelling down and do something for the pain. Otherwise, she can go ahead home now, no need to keep her.”
    I brush the nurse out of the way and lift Carrie into a wheelchair. They put a brace on her foot, but I don’t want her making it worse. Phoebe wheels her outside, and I lift her into the front seat of her Tahoe.
    While Phoebe drives her home, I peel off to a Walgreens and walk inside.
    The clerk at the counter says, “Holy crap, you’re--”
    “Not now,” I growl.
    From the first aid aisle, I grab a big bottle of the ibuprofen. Bearing one of those little baskets in one hand, I fill it with snacks and candy, then scowl at the clerk at the front while I pay for it in silence and walk out.
    “Jerk,” the kid mutters under his breath.
    I resist the urge to flip him the bird and head over to Phoebe’s. She answers the door when I knock.
    “What?”
    I step inside, holding up the bag. Carrie is on the couch with her foot propped up on a stack of pillows on top of an ottoman. She looks better already. The bowl of ice cream propped on her tummy probably helps. Phoebe changed her out of her uniform into a set of pajamas.
    “She’s fine,” Phoebe says.
    I walk into the kitchen and set down the bag.
    “What happened to eating healthy?” Phoebe