Trillion - Winter Renshaw Page 0,90
matched her red sarong. I can picture it clearer than anything in this damn room.
I can hear her laugh, bubbly and contagious.
If I close my eyes, I can see her heart-shaped smile—the one that takes up half her face and can turn the worst of days completely upside down.
“We’re going to let you rest, Mr. James, and then we’ll order a few tests.” The doctor digs in a deep pocket of his jacket, and then he sneaks a glance at his phone. “I’ll be here for the next eight hours, if you have any additional questions. The nurses will ensure you’re comfortable in the meantime. We’ll discuss your treatment plan as soon as you’re feeling up to it.”
He tells the nurse with the dark hair to order a CT scan, mumbles something else I can’t discern, and then he’s gone. A moment later, the room clears save for myself and the third nurse—the one who’s done nothing but stare at me with despondent eyes this entire time.
“There must be a mistake. Someone needs to call my wife immediately.” I try to sit up, but an electric intensity unlike anything I’ve ever experienced shoots up my arm and settles along my back and shoulders.
The thought of her not knowing where I am sends a squeeze to my chest. What if she thinks I left her? What if she thinks I disappeared? What if she has no idea what happened? And what was I doing in Hoboken when our life is in Manhattan?
“What’s her name?” Her question comes soft and low, almost like she’s trying to ensure no one hears her. “Your wife?”
I open my mouth to speak … only nothing comes out.
I can picture her as vivid as still blue waters on a windless day—but it’s the strangest thing because her name escapes me.
Nothing but blank after infuriating blank.
“I … I can’t remember.” I lean back, staring into the reflective void of a black TV screen on the opposite wall.
The nurse’s gaze grows sadder, if that’s possible. “It’s okay. You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
She doesn’t believe me.
“Would you like me to call your sister?” she asks.
My sister … Claire.
If I can remember my sister’s name, why can’t I remember my own wife’s?
“Yes,” I say. “Call Claire. Immediately.”
She’ll be able to sort this out, I’m sure of it.
“Would you like me to adjust your bed?” The nurse straightens the covers over my legs. “I’m Miranda, by the way. I’ve been assigned to you since you arrived. I can tell you just about anything you need to know.”
“Just … call my sister.”
“Of course, Mr. James. Can I grab you anything while I make that call?”
I lift my hand—the one without the IV—to my forehead. “Head’s pounding like a goddamned jackhammer. Got anything for that?”
“Absolutely. Be right back …”
Miranda hurries out the door, and I’m alone.
If I close my eyes, the room spins, but I can picture my wife with impeccable lucidity—the square line of her jaw, her heart-shaped lips that flip up in the corners, the candy-apple green of her eyes.
My heart aches, though it isn’t a physical pain, it’s deeper.
More profound.
Like the drowning of a human soul.
I remind myself that the doctor said it’s normal to be disoriented, and I promise myself everything will come back to me once I get my bearings.
The clock on the wall reads eight minutes past seven. The sky beyond the windows is half-lit. I haven’t the slightest clue if it’s AM or PM. I couldn’t tell you what day it is or what month it is for that matter.
“Mr. James, your sister is on her way,” the nurse says when she returns.
She hands me a white paper cup with two white pills.
So much fucking white.
If I never see white again after this, I’ll die a happy man.
***
“Oh my God …” Claire stands in the doorway of my hospital room, her hands forming a peak over her nose and mouth. From here, she’s nothing more than a mess of dark waves and shiny, tear-brimmed eyes.
She looks like shit, but I’m in no place to judge. Nor would I tell her that. She’d kick my ass, hospital bed or not. Claire may be pixie-sized, but she’s scrappy.
Her neon green sneakers graze against the tile floor with muted shuffles as she hurries to my side, and she wastes no time sliding her cold hand into mine. Her hands are always cold, but in this moment, they’re icy—a staunch reminder that I’m far from the warmth of the beach