Help me, I tried to reply. It came out more as a garble of sounds than words.
“Try to move your fingers. Can you do that?”
Fingers, knees, toes, and head. Everything felt so distant, except for the aches. Those were everywhere. I moaned through a wave of discomfort. A constant ringing in the distance was underlaid beneath the beeping of a machine. My entire body felt like it was compressed under a large pile of stones.
“You can do it,” the woman assured in French.
“How long until she responds?” a man asked. His tone was commanding, arrogant, as though his words mattered more than anything else.Hisvoice. It wasn’t gentle or caring but remained reassuring, shoving away more of the numbness.
“She’s waking, Monsieur De Villier. Give it time.”
The man grunted deep within his throat, the sound as grave as his voice.
“Come on, retry. Move your fingers. That’s it,” the woman said gently.
I slipped my fingers over the silky bedsheets. My breathing echoed in my head. My ears rang, and my body felt immeasurably heavy, but everything seemed clearer.
My mouth was dry and powdery, just like my throat I tried to clear. I could hear. I could smell. Both were a relief. I still couldn’t see.
Measured footsteps tapped about the room. Something squeaked, followed by a soft clack—a door closing perhaps? Someone had left the room. The footsteps were swallowed up. The man from earlier spoke in the distance, but his hardhanded words were muffled and fading, even though his voice remained sharp. He was the one who left. Why? Was he coming back?
I tried lifting my eyelids. I needed to see. They resisted, as if weights were clamped over them.
“Once more. Try with your other hand this time,” the lady repeated. “Good, I’m going to sit you up.”
The bed hummed as it contorted and folded my body. I grunted on a wince with the shift. My neck protested, my head threatening to buckle forward.
“No more than that, I think. Sitting up will do you some good. You’ve been unconscious for the better part of twenty days with intermittent periods of alertness during the worst of the withdrawals. Although the drugs are out of your system, it’s possible you’ll still feel some lingering effects. Perhaps some insomnia or restlessness. Even some soreness, not to be confused with symptoms of muscle atrophy. Do not be surprised if you find it difficult to move or put weight on your limbs for the next few days. Do you know where you are?”
Drugs? What drugs?
“No,” I croaked with a slight shake of my head. I winced from the sudden ache shooting from my temple down into my ear and lower to my neck.
“What month is it?”
I knew my months, even in French, the words crisp and clear in my head, but I didn’t know which one we were in. Why didn’t I know that? Shouldn’t I know that? I had to. No matter how hard I thought on it, it refused to come to me. I sucked in quick breaths. The beeping at my bedside accelerated.
“Breathe.” A thin hand rubbed against my shoulders. “In, out. In…”
What month was it? Think. Think. Come on. There were no heaters whirring, no AC churning. Couldn’t be summer or the dead of winter then, could it? But how did I know that when everything else was a creeping void except for random blurry images flitting around in the back of my head? The answer was there. The word was right there, yet not. Why couldn’t I remember?
Another click, squeak, and clack, then footsteps were on the approach, pulling my attention. My head lolled toward the sounds, wincing from the ache. Not that I saw past the fuzz in my head. A woodsy scented blend of smoked sandalwood and plums tickled my nose. The manly smell was soothing and tantalizing. I leaned closer to its comfort.
“So, the month?” the woman repeated patiently.
“No,” I answered softly, then licked my dry lips. “Where…am I?”
“An estate near Saint-Tropez,” the woman replied gently.
I tried to think about where that was. Black nothing was all I got. And a headache.
“I don’t…”
“That’s alright. Do you remember what happened?”
“I…the boat.”
“Yes. You came in with quite a variety of problems. You had a mild brain contusion, a non-penetrating gunshot wound to the abdomen, and your body was in hypovolemic shock fromdehydration. With your other injuries, your body had its work cut out for it.”
