Ethans Fal

by Dee Palmer

  “Ada, you’re my best worker; it’s not that. Ah fuck, this fucking stinks.” He moans into his cupped hands.

  “You’re telling me! You know everyone has their staff sorted for the season by now, don’t you? There are no other jobs out there. Maybe if you had told me two weeks ago, when the other places were still hiring…Shit, Buddy! Why are you doing this?” He flinches when he catches the despair in my expression.

  “It’s not me, Ada, you know I don’t have a problem; But the boss, he doesn’t like a mess, and unaccounted cash on the books is messy.”

  I frown because I really don’t understand. “You’re the boss? And now you don’t like mess?” I try to clarify my confusion.

  “I’m a partner in the bar, but I’m not the big boss..” He shrugs away any hope I have of changing his mind. If it was his decision, I know him well enough that he wouldn’t see me unemployed.

  “So, who’s the big boss?” My head snaps to the sound of a scraping chair hidden round the alcove out of sight from the main part of the office. Buddy looks equally shocked that there is someone else in the room.

  “That would be me, Ada, or is it Artemis?” Shirtless and glorious Ethan steps into view, his towel draped over one shoulder. His hair is still damp, his toned ripped torso is dotted with patches of dried sand, like he has just stepped off the beach. But he hasn’t, he’s been here the whole time. His perfectly white, straight teeth and wide grin evidently taking too much delight in this turn of events.

  I close my eyes at the sight and to stop him from seeing me roll my eyes. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction that he can affect my life with so little effort. I look up to him and tighten my smile.

  “Definitely Artemis to you.” I keep my voice level, and if it’s possible his grin widens.

  “Ah, but now I know what you’re really called.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the muscles of his forearms bunch and glisten with sweat.

  “Only to people I like,” I snap, and go to stand. He steps forward into the space I needed, forcing me to fall back down with a bump. I squeal when my tailbone crunches on the frame of the sofa. He towers over me and I swear his eyes darken. No, there are no windows in here, that’s why his eyes look so dark, heavy lidded. No natural light.

  “But we both know you do like me, don’t we, Ada?” His voice drops and I can feel my insides tingle, hot and a little bit damp. I swallow and lick my suddenly dry lips. The salty air does that, I remind myself.

  “I…I–” Can’t construct a sentence or breathe.

  “Don’t be a dick, Ethan. You don’t even know the girl.” Buddy interrupts with a light laugh, trying to ease the tension, and I manage to take a much needed gasp of air. It is stifling in here.

  “No, Buddy, we’ve met. We had a very nice meeting this afternoon.” His emphasis is exaggerated, and makes my cheeks instantly flush red, which even the dimly lit room can’t mask.

  “Oh!” Buddy nods in understanding–a misunderstanding, by the look on his face–and his knowing grin. Sofa swallow me now, could this get any worse.

  “Yes, Buddy, Ada is going to be my new cleaner.” Ethan steps back, actually ruffles my hair in a playful manner. I am just waiting for the light punch to the forearm, but it doesn’t come. He winks and tips his head, indicating I am being dismissed but I have lost the impetus to move. The thought that Ethan’s words meant more, that he felt more, have been brought into sharp focus. My body did react to his, I couldn’t help that; didn’t want to help that at the time. But obviously the only ‘more’ Ethan felt, was relief at not having to deal with his stinky laundry. Time to squish my physical reactions to him into a neat little box, nail it shut, and bury it on the beach next to my hope and future. Because the material affects he has are a little more pressing. However, unwittingly, Ethan has just made a homeless Ada, unemployed.

  Two Years Ago

  I CAN HEAR that voice again, soft lilting. Often it is just a gentle sound in my dreams, but this time I can hear the words and they make sense to me.

  “Light up, light up. As if you have a choice. Even if you cannot hear my voice, I’ll be right beside you dear…hmmm, hmmm…Oh!” The singing stops abruptly and I can hear scraping and shuffling. A warm light friction on my face. “You can hear me, can’t you sweetheart?” The female voice coaxes me from my sluggish inertia. Her touch repeating its welcome contact on my face. I can feel that. I can hear her but I feel utterly exhausted by even that understanding, so how will I ever have the energy to answer? “You like my song? It’s a favourite of mine. Now, come on sweetheart, I know it’s a favourite of yours too. Why don’t you open your eyes for me and we can talk lyrics and poetry. Hell, there’s no-one in this room but you and me, we can talk hard core porn, if you’d just open your eyes for me.” She’s funny. I wonder if she knows I think so. I can feel a tingling sensation in my face, but I don’t know what is involuntary or what I control. Everything feels disconnected or at least suppressed under a weighty, womb-warm blanket. I am totally cocooned and immobile in this protective layer, but now I can hear. Now I understand and feel, and I want out. “That’s it, Arti, open your eyes. It’s a beautiful day.”

  Bam! A burst of bright light and a pain so sharp, it feels like my chest had been cracked wide open with a hatchet. I croak out a garbled noise that must be amusing because the lady now looking down at me has the widest smile. “Yes!” she cries and fist pumps the air. She then takes my wrist, then her fingers press my pulse point, and in seriousness she starts silently counting. Placing my hand limp at my side, she then elevates me from lying flat to almost bolt upright with a touch of a button. “There, that’s better.” She fusses with my covers and tucks my hair behind both ears. She misses and a large section falls across my face, and I look down to the wave of hair on my breast. Wow, that is a lot of hair. When did it get so long? Wait…No!

  The images that bombard me are like bullets: hard, fast and lethal. The doctor…my father…this place. Cal left us. Pip…oh, my God, my baby. Cal sold my baby to my father, and my father gave her away!

  “Shit!” The woman’s voice is utter panic. I start to tremble, not gentle shaking but violent tremors, which rack my body, and flip me jerking on my side. “Shit! Shit! Stay with me, Arti! Try to breathe…Fuck!” A piercing siren goes off, and a rush of bodies attempt to restrain my seizing body. “Do you have to? I’ve only just got her to wake up?” I can’t respond, but I comprehend perfectly. This woman doesn’t want me sedated any more than I do, but it doesn’t look like there is going to be a choice. My last moment of focus is on the clear liquid poised to drop from the tiny needle. Blurred and frenzied struggles end my fight, as it had before, but now I remember everything, I remember everything with excruciating clarity. I succumb because this blissfully potent blanket is just too damn heavy, and right now, I need the oblivion it affords.

  I have been awake for a few days now. Each day is a little more real yet surreal at the same time. Physically my body seems fine. I can feed myself, but I am never hungry. I can wash myself–well I could, if I was allowed to–and I can take myself to the tiny ensuite toilet on my own, when I’m allowed. I can feel everything now, but rather than the joyful euphoria one should feel at being alive, at a chance of a real life again. I just feel raw and desolate.

  I haven’t spoken yet and I can see the lady, who woke me and introduced herself as Dr. Burrows, is getting frustrated. I am not fooling her one bit. Today is no different.

  “You must have a million questions, Artemis, and I am here to help you.” She pulls a chair close to the side of my bed and takes my hand. “Artemis…I–”

  “I would rather you didn’t call me that.” My voice sounds as cold as the sentiment I am expressing. But she looks thrilled, her smile is wide, and she bounces in her seat, looking more like a giddy preschooler than a professional psychiatrist. She checks herself, but her face is alight and eager for more. That’s a shame. I close my eyes and don’t say another word. Not for days, weeks maybe, it�
��s difficult to keep track of time. I have stopped eating, only taking a few sips of water when my throat is parched with pain. One of the nurses was careless enough to leave her fountain pen on my nightstand, which I carefully spent the night dismantling and carving the date 21.04.11. into the inside of my wrist. The wound seeped for a few days and has scabbed over nicely, but it did mean I have been restrained each night to prevent a repeat occurrence. I have no intention of making any more marks. I was just so scared they would do something to make me forget. I needed the permanent reminder.

  Every morning and every afternoon Joan–she calls herself that, never Doctor Burrows, not since the first introduction–comes in and talks to me. She sits for an hour or so, and chats about anything and nothing, but everything she says is an open ended question and her desperation to get me to engage is a little pitiful. I don’t want to speak to her; I don’t want to speak to anyone. I just want to get out of here.

  Joan’s eyes look tired today when she rounds the open door and walks slowly into the room. She draws in a deep breath, and lets out a heavy sigh. She comes to the side of my bed and wipes away the blood from the crook in my arm. I ripped the IV out, again. Her voice is so soft, I find myself leaning toward her to hear.

  “You know, darling, if you ever want to get out of here, you are going to have to stop acting like a crazy person.” She doesn’t smile with the joke, and I have to wonder whether she meant it as one.

  I snort, but decide to throw her a bone. “When in Rome, Joan,” My gaze meets hers but she still looks so sad, and I was, at the very least, expecting a little smile. A small laugh at my lame attempt at humour. I can see her words weren’t trite…they weren’t a joke at all. In a voice that chills me with its serious timbre, she places her hands on my face, and holds me captive with her cool, gentle grasp.

  “You are not crazy, young lady, but you are acting that way and if you don’t stop…” Her voice breaks and her eyes pool; so do mine. “If you don’t stop, sweetheart, there will be nothing I can do to help you.” In a move that I am sure crosses the professional line but hits me hard in my heart, she places a kiss on my furrowed brow then leaves the room. No chatting today. In fact, I don’t see her again for several days, but I use the time to think about what she said. I think about nothing else.

  I’m not crazy; I’m angry. I’m unbelievably angry and hurt. I’ve been betrayed by the one person I loved in this world, and I’ve been deceived by the people who are supposed to love me most in the world. Desolation doesn’t cover what I’m feeling, but I’m not crazy. I don’t even think what I have been doing is really indicative of mental illness. My silence or loss of appetite, even ripping the IV out, are just expressions of utter frustration at being forced into a situation where I have no control.

  I will tell Joan as much, if she ever comes back. In the meantime, I stop tearing out my drip and start to pick at the food that is brought to me. When Joan does return, she is still a little guarded, but she can’t hide her smile at my empty breakfast bowl. She sits patiently and I guess this would be my opportunity to start the ‘I’m not crazy, get me out of here’ speech I have been plotting.

  “I don’t want you to call me Artemis or Arti or any derivative of that name, if that is all right? I mean if that isn’t going to be construed as the act of a crazy person.” I raise a teasing brow and she bites back a smirk.

  “What about Ada? It’s the initials I’ve been using on your notes and it’s my dog’s name, and I love my dog.” She beams at me and I chuckle.

  “You want to name me after your dog?” I try to sound affronted, but she shrugs at my unconvincing tone. “I like it…I like Ada.” I confirm.

  She nods, her jaw must be aching with the spread of that smile. She starts to rummage in her bag, and she groans when she pulls out a few hardback books and places them on my nightstand with a thud. “You must be bored out of your head. I got you these, but since I have no idea what you like to read I brought a selection of fiction and non.” I look at the six stacked books: a book on the History of Art, Hitchhikers Guide, Villette, The Odyssey, Twilight, and Count of Monte Cristo.

  “Wow that is eclectic! How long am I going to be here, exactly?” I smile at the range of books, but it is a serious question.

  “That depends on you, Ada.” We both grin at my new moniker.

  “I guess. How long have I been here?” I have tried to work it out because I was too stubborn to ask. There is no television, radio, or any newspapers. In my self-inflicted silent world I honestly have no idea how long I have been here. The colour drains from Joan’s face and I take an involuntary shaky breath. Joan mirrors my steady exhalation and in a voice I know she thinks is calm shatters my fragile world once more.

  “Ada, you have been asleep for two years. What I mean is, you have been in a medically induced coma for eighteen months, and then I had you put on a more gradual sedation, which has taken nearly six months to reduce in an attempt to assuage some of the side effects of such a long sedation.” She pauses to gauge my reaction, probably anticipating a meltdown of biblical proportions. But it’s strange; it’s like she is telling someone else and all I can hear is a muffled jumble of words I don’t understand. The words swirl and drift until they settle, and I finally comprehend the magnitude of the revelation. I have lost two years of my life– of Pip’s life.

  “Why?” I can see her shoulders relax at my quiet voice. I don’t have the energy for hysterics. I feel utterly devastated and my body reacts the only way it can. Tears; unstoppable tears flood my eyes and pour down my cheeks. The liquid too abundant to be absorbed by the waxy coated pillows and it pools behind my ears and trickles to the back of my neck.

  Joan looks almost as distressed, but how could she be? She doesn’t even know the truth. “Oh, sweetheart, I know this is a shock, but you are back now and together we will get you well again.” The irony that I wasn’t sick when I was brought here, isn’t lost on me. I was happy, healthy, and loved. I wasn’t depressed, or unstable; I wasn’t unwell. I can’t help but feel that Joan now has a mammoth task ahead of her, if she thinks she can ever make me well. She squeezes my hand, holding on tight enough that the pain breaks through my dazed state. I repeat my question. I deserve answers.

  “Why?” I take her hand and hold it just as firmly. She glances down and her lips tighten with sadness and frustration.

  “I don’t know. There has been some irregularity…” She shakes her head, but then pulls her shoulders back. “Honestly, I don’t know what happened with your case, Ada. Even if I never find out, I promise I won’t let you down. Together we will get you out of here.” Her smile is fixed, her declaration resolute, and I feel the first surge of something warm burn inside my chest. It feels a lot like love, but I think it might be hope. Definitely hope because I don’t believe I will ever feel love again. I won’t risk it again.

  Now

  “You didn’t have to be such a jerk, Ethan.” Buddy punches me on the shoulder with more force than his playful tone merits. I turn away but not because of the punch, it has more to do with the massive erection currently trying to cause me as much pain as possible. She is so my fucking type; but then pretty much any woman is my type. Still, there is something about Ada. I adjust myself and slump down onto the low sofa. My subtle attempt to hide my bulge with the only cushion doesn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t fuck with her, Ethan. She’s…” He hesitates and I sit up a little, too keen to learn more. What is she exactly?

  “Yes? She’s what?” He shrugs to brush off my question. “You are giving me warning for a reason, I take it, Buddy? So what is she and why shouldn’t I fuck with her?” I narrow my eyes because I can see he is serious; but so am I.

  “Look, she’s just had a bit of a time of it. I’ve known her over a year, but I mean I don’t know the details. Not even Sky knows the whole story and they are tight. All I’m saying is, no one lives like a nomad half the year for fun. She’s a bright girl and works hard. I like her, so as a favour to me I woul
d like it if you didn’t fuck with her. Is that clear enough or would you like that in a fucking spreadsheet too?”

  I bark out a laugh and hold my hands up in surrender. “Whoa, okay, Buddy, I get it. And as I said before, I don’t want any complications. If you’re right about her being so bright, I’m sure she will find another job. You can even have a call around for her on my time. But she is not my responsibility. This business, however, is.” I swing my legs round to sit upright. “So don’t try and guilt me, Buddy, I don’t need that shit. I’ve had enough guilt to last a fucking life time and I kinda came here to–”

  Buddy interrupts my rant. “Look, I’m sorry Ethan, that’s not what I meant. You’re the boss and I respect that. I don’t agree, but your decision is your decision. It’s done and dusted. All I’m saying is she’s …she’s….” He runs his hands roughly through his long thick mane with obvious agitation and it’s my turn to interrupt.

  “I get it. You don’t need to worry. I have no intention of fucking with her. No complications, remember? Besides, I have too much to do.” I grab my towel, keys, and turn to leave. His smile and relaxed shoulders surprise me. It’s not like Buddy to be so protective; I mean he cares for his staff, but he is way too relaxed to get involved in their lives. “I do, however, have every intention of having some fun, and Ada is definitely at the top of my to do list.” I let the door snap shut before I can see the full scowl, which looks wholly unfamiliar on Buddy’s face. I don’t quite make it to the bar when I hear him shout something about fucking women with children, maybe mother fucker. Yeah definitely motherfucker.