The realization is startling. She tries to sit up but finds she cannot. It’s like she’s paralyzed. No, not quite—she can move her fingers and toes. Thank God. It’s more like her brain is sitting outside her body, a deconstructed turkey on a platter.
Where am I??
The church bells conclude, and in the too-quiet silence that follows, she gradually becomes more aware of her surroundings.The sheets beneath her that are too soft and satiny to be hospital-grade. A hard plaster cast that encompasses her wrist.
And then, the rustling in the room.
I’m not alone.
Fear prickles through her body.
She wills her eyes to open, but they won’t obey. Even so, a shadow fills her vision, like a dark cloud crossing the sky. A figure. A stranger.
Someone who now touches her hand.
Vivian
February
Vivian stares across Canton’s Restaurant at the girl with blue hair. She’s maybe in her early twenties and wears a black shirt and black pants, as if going to a funeral. On the side of her nose is a piercing, or a hole for one. Flitting over to the bar, she says something to the bartender, who gives a hesitant smile. The way she leans toward him implies familiarity, almost like they’re coworkers. She’s certainly not a guest, based on her appearance, or that tacky pink sticker-decorated suitcase from earlier, but it also doesn’t seem like she’s the hired help.
Peter, too, seems to notice her. Eduardo has to ask twice if they need anything else.
“No, thank you, Eduardo. We are all set right now,” Peter finally replies.
“Enjoy your meal,” Eduardo says, with a little bow. As he retreats past the bar, he does a double take and then quickens his pace to head into the kitchen.
Who is she?
Vivian picks up her fork and somehow manages to shovel pieces of her salmon Caesar salad into her mouth. She nodspolitely to something Peter says, but she’s not following the conversation. The lettuce tastes like pieces of paper in Vivian’s mouth, making it difficult to swallow. Even her favorite wine is now marked with a bitter aftertaste, as if left out overnight without a cork. Everything feels off, despite how Peter is now completely focused on Vivian. Even so, Vivian knows hewasthrown off by the girl’s appearance.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Peter asks, at one point, sitting back in his chair. He’s smiling, but he’s also not.
“Nothing’s going on,” Vivian says, a little too quickly. She picks up her wineglass but then thinks better of it. She needs her wits about her and instead takes a long sip of water. Her gaze invariably drifts over to the bar. On the woman’s feet are a pair of black Converse. Shehasto work here. Something about her profile strikes Vivian as familiar.
Rose suddenly enters from the kitchen, her face uncharacteristically flushed. Eduardo follows closely behind, whispering in her ear. He’s gesturing both at the bar, where the woman is, and toward the back of the restaurant. Vivian gives a quick glance behind her at the other diners, but all seems to be in order: people engrossed in conversation and food.
“You seem distracted,” Peter says.
She shrugs. “Like I said, I have a headache.”
“Bullshit.” Peter’s lower jaw juts out slightly; he’s not saying this in a teasing manner.
She looks down at her wineglass. There’s a red drop of wine on the base, and she uses her finger to rub the liquid back and forth, her own thoughts swirling. “Well, maybe we’re both bullshitting each other,” she finally replies, meeting his gaze.
He raises his eyebrows. “I hope not. I don’t want that.”
“Neither do I.”
“There are things about me, and…” He drops his voice lower. “The Knox. Things I want to tell you, in private.”
“Like what?”
He seemed to have no problem divulging Knox secrets earlier on.
“For starters, I didn’t tell you the truth about my trip.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” She hopes she sounds convincing. She steals another glance at the bar, but the blue-haired woman is no longer there—not in the restaurant at all, in fact. Nor is Rose or Eduardo.
