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I wake up in a dimly lit room, the television high up on the wall in the corner, playing a Lifetime movie. A blue cast covers my right forearm, and an IV bag hangs beside me.
“Good morning,” a voice says, startling me.
A man in a black uniform sits in the corner across the room, a magazine on his lap. “I’ll go grab Dr. Z for you.”
He sets the magazine aside, rises and leaves the room quietly, closing the door behind him.
I peer around the room. It’s decorated like an old person’s bedroom with gold-framed paintings of nature and a small table lamp beside the armchair the man was sitting in.
The door opens partway, and I catch a glimpse of Dr. Z speaking to someone on the other side before he enters the room fully, followed by a nurse’s aide. He pushes the door shut behind her and carries a large manila envelope to a white box on the wall at the foot of my bed. The aide leans against the wall by the door.
He flicks on a light, pulls an X-ray from the envelope, and slides it under a clip, illuminating the image of my arm. “You have a simple ulnar fracture.” He points to the split between the bones with his pinkie. “Luckily, your radius is intact.” The light flicks off, and he returns the X-ray to its envelope. “You’ll be in a cast for about five weeks.” He passes the envelope to the aide, who sets it on the counter beside her. “You also have two stitches in your spine to close the hole that kept bleeding, but it’s going to scar along with the other nine puncture marks.” He turns to me. “How did this happen, Miss Salavatori?”
We are back to being formal. It must be because we are at his workplace and the nurse is here.
I look away from him, the lie passing flawlessly through my lips. “Body suspension failure.”
A chuckle escapes the aid, and I glance at her. Dr. Z’s eyes darken, and he flashes her a dirty look, wiping the smirk off her face at once. I pick at the end of my cast with my fingertips, growing nervous as his intense stare pierces through me, not believing my explanation. “Where am I?” I ask, waving my handaround the room, changing the subject. “And why is it decorated like an old folks’ home?”
This softens Dr. Z’s demeanor. He relaxes his shoulders and says, “It’s the Palliative Care Unit.”
My eyes blow wide open, and I sit up quickly, making my head spin. “Am I dying?” I ask, my eyes darting from his to the aid and back again.
Dr. Z shakes his head. “Of course not. We didn’t have any other available beds.”
“So, someone died, and you gave me their room?” I ask, dropping back against the pillow.
He steps around the end of the bed and stands beside me. “Don’t worry, we cleaned the room and changed the sheets.”
His attempt at humor makes me smile briefly, but doesn’t ease the nervousness lingering in the pit of my stomach.
A soft knock on the door directs our attention to it. A young man, probably in high school, carries in a tray and places it on the table beside my bed. He nods to the doctor, waves at the aide and leaves. My eyes drift from the tray to my casted arm, and a long-winded sigh escapes me. I’m right-handed, so feeding myself is going to be a bitch.
As if he read my mind, Dr. Z nods to the aide. She rolls the tray table to the left side of my bed and removes the lid. Mashed potatoes, pudding, cut-up carrots, and ham—everything that can easily be spooned or forked without landing on me if I’m careful. The nurse grabs a cup of ice, opens the apple juice and pours it inside. She presses on a lid and jams a straw in the top before rolling the table across my lap. “Cream and sugar for your coffee?” she asks in a squeaky voice.
I shake my head, and she asks, “Do you want me to stay and help you eat, or do you think you can manage?”
Stay and help me eat? I keep forgetting what floor we are on. She’s used to feeding those who can’t. “That won’t be necessary,” I say politely.
She turns on her heels, grabs my X-ray off the counter, and exits the room, leaving the door open.
My hand trembles as I pick up my fork, stab a piece of ham and push it between my lips. It’s dry, salty and flavorless. I hate it. I set the fork back on my tray and stare at the television, ignoring the doctor’s inquiring eyes. After several heartbeats of silence, he finally says, “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth.”
Without looking at him, I say, “The truth doesn’t matter if it sounds like another lie.”
He takes a step closer to me and says, “Try me.”
“I’m tired.” I close my eyes. “Can you please leave?”
Telling him my injuries are from my incubus lover isn’t something I’m ready to share with the good doctor at this very moment.
His posture shifts, and I open my eyes as he leans over me, his face blocking my view of the television. “Contessa,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
I blink multiple times before saying, “I am looking at you.”
He shakes his head and brings his face even closer. “No, really look at me—my face, my eyes, don’t you remember me at all?” I furrow my brow at him and shake my head slowly, utterly confused. His palm rests softly on my face, and he whispers, “You’re going to be okay.”
