Sarah Shun-lien Bynum

Every part of me was shaking.

It was winter in New York, and I'd been fluttering around in my nightclothes, and now I'd gone from entertainment greatness to being a heap of cracked bones in the wind.

When my mother finally appeared, she carefully dragged me over the black metal slats and lifted me through the window.

I was still trembling, too much to speak, but I could see that my mother's face was pale and weird.

I understood that dying, which I might be about to do, was something I'd have to manage alone, and no one had taught me how.

I was angry about this.

I'm fine, I said.

Not that nicely, either.

Because this was New York in February of 1974, nobody bothered to call an ambulance.

You'd get old waiting, so Nini's mother ran to get us a taxi.

Her father, whom I'd always liked, carried me down the stairs.

But when he jostled my leg, handing me to my mother, I screamed again.

Why did you do this, Kara?

my mother kept saying.

She said it as we moved through traffic, and she said it as she carried me into the hospital, into the big scuffed hall, crowded with New York at its bad news worst.

A man held a bloody towel to his neck, which was the waiting area for the emergency room.

We're okay now, sweetie, my mother said.

We had to wait.

She needs attention, my mother had to tell them over and over.

She filled out a form.