by Daisy Allen
"Honey," Toni says, coming in to bring me the food they left behind. "Have some lunch."
"Just leave it on the table," I tell her, my eyes not leaving the TV screen.
"You need to eat something."
"I will. Just leave it."
"Can I get you-..."
"No. Close the door on the way out."
"Okay. I'll check on you in a bit."
"I'm fine, go take care of your other patients."
The next day is the same. I spend an hour at a useless physiotherapy session with a new physio-therapist where I do nothing but lift my arms up and down, flapping like damn wounded baby bird. I yell to the nurses I don't want to be disturbed before hiding out in my room.
My friends knock on the door this time, yelling my name, calling me out.
But I ignore them.
At this rate, I'm not going anywhere, it's better they don't waste their time coming to visit.
I make sure the door is open by the mid-afternoon, though and I sit, waiting. Waiting for the music. But it doesn't come.
What a waste. She can play like that, and she doesn't.
What a waste, I think to myself, cradling my wrist.
What a fucking waste.
***
The next morning is the same old shit.
"Rotate it to the left now," Brian, the PT tells me.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it fucking hurts," I tell him. And he looks like he couldn't care less.
"It's not going to get any better if you don't exercise it,” he says for the third time that day.
"Is it going to get better if I do?"
"There's a better chance of it healing fully, yes."
"You promise?" I snicker, knowing full well he can’t.
"No. You know better than to believe a promise like that, Jez. Now, please rotate your wrist anti-clockwise."
I do. Just to because I thinks he think I won’t. I do it out of spite. And then hiss from the pain.
"Is that what you want? See me in pain?"
"If that's what helps you through it, then you can think what you want." He shrugs.
"Go to hell." I say, and grab one of the elastic bands and fling it toward the window and storm back to my room.
"See you tomorrow, Jez," he calls after me.
“See you in hell,” I mutter under my breath.
"No visitors, Toni!" I yell across the hall to the nurses' station when I get back to my floor and pull the door shut behind me, wincing from the pain in my elbow. I settle in my bed, cradling my wrist against my stomach. Laying back, feeling the dull thump thump of my pulse in my arm, sore after an hour of exercises.
The door slides open and Toni comes in.
"They're not going to like it, honey."
"Mister Petrescu," I correct her, knowing just how much of a douche I sound.
Her eyebrows shoot up, but she looks amused instead of offended.
"Fine, His Royal Petrescu. But let me tell you this, this attitude of yours isn't going to get you anywhere but your own personal hell. And you are going to see those friends of yours, because they have come every single bloody day that you've been in here, even when you didn't know they were. And while I get paid to deal with your ass, they do it out of love. And you don't know how lucky you are to have that."
I know she's right.
But it doesn’t change anything.
"You don’t know what I’ve bee-..."
"Oh yes, I do,” she practically yells at me, her hands on her hips, and I know the rest of the lecture is coming. “Whatever you think is so unique about your situation, I've seen it, hell, I've lived it. So, suck it up, maybe spending a little less time feeling sorry for yourself and more time working on your exercise, cos that’s what’s gonna save you."
She huffs and shoves me forward while she fluffs my pillows, mumbling under her breath and then pushes me back against them. I bite back a smile. The first I’ve had all day.
She’s right. Of course she is.
"Please. Just... give me one more day. Okay? I'll see them tomorrow, but I just need one more day."
"Fine. I'll tell 'em, Mister Petrescu. I’ll tell them to come back tomorrow."
She grabs a dirty cup from my table and steps towards the door, pulling it closed behind her, shutting me in with my thoughts.
The afternoon visitor rush comes and goes and I watch night-time descend as the sky turn dark outside my window.
And I wait.
But again, there’s no music.
Fuck this. I get up and poke my head out the door.
"Robbie," I whisper, gesturing to the night nurse and he comes jogging over. "Can I grab a pen and a piece of paper?"
He nods and brings it to me in my room.
I try to grip the pen in my right hand, and it feels awkward and stiff, but not painful. My index finger pushes too hard against the pen and it slips out of my hand and onto the floor.
"Flying sack of steaming hot fucking woolly mammoth shit!!!"
Robbie's head pokes in through the open door.
"What's up, J? Need help with something?"
"N-..." I bite back the trigger response of rejecting any help. "Er, yeah, would you mind writing a note for me? Still having a little trouble."
"Yeah, no problem," he says, picking the pen up off the floor and stands over the table, ready to write.
"Can you, um, can you just write the words, 'Les Feuilles Mortes'?"
He blinks for a few seconds, trying to make sense of the request.
"Yeah, honestly, no. No, I cannot write… um Le Frilly Moth.”
“Les Feuilles Mortes.”
“That’s what I said. Is there a note in English I can write for you?"
"Sorry, um, yeah. How about “Autumn Leaves"?”
"Autumn... Leaves," he says as he scribbles on the paper. "That I can do. That's it?" He holds up the note, checking his work.
"Yeah. Well, could you deliver it for me? To... er, the woman... er, to Noémie?"
"The newbie patient down the hall?"
"Yeah."
He just shrugs and folds the piece of paper and tucks it into his shirt, like it's nothing. Like that note doesn't contain the secret to my sanity.
CHAPTER NINE
Noémie
"Are you done?" Paige asks me, holding her hand out for my plate.
"Yeah, thanks for dinner, it was delicious." I say, handing it to her and giving her a grateful smile. As hard as it is to deal with the energy of her visits, she's really the only regular outside contact that I have. I'd go crazy if it weren't for her.
"No problem. So, this place gets a tick from us?" She waves a napkin at me, pointing to the logo of the café the food came from.
"Definitely, but would it matter? Don't you go there for the hot barista anyway? Isn't that how we pick most take-out places?"
"Seems your memory is working just fine," she says, poking her tongue out at me, and bundles up the used plates into the trash can.
"Speaking of which, can you help me with some of my memory exercises?"
She smiles and fusses with the bed, straightening out the sheets and fluffing the pillow.
"Sure, but not tonight, yeah? You look a little tired. You shouldn't be pushing yourself."
"I haven't been sleeping really well."
"Oh, do you need something to help with that?" She looks instantly concerned.
"I do, sometimes. Mostly when my head hurts though."
She comes over and sits down next to me on the couch, gently stroking my hair. "Is it getting better?"
"The pain? Yeah, almost all gone now. And the doctor says I'm pretty healed up otherwise. It's just that my brain is still a little foggy. Who knows when that will clear up?"
"Well, no rush, you just let your body recover at its own time."
"I can't stay here forever. I can't afford that."
"How many times am I going to have to tell you? Would you just let me worry about
that? My Dad is cool with it, okay? Like he'd ever miss the money." And as true as that is, it’s not my money to spend. I don’t tell her that the concept of paying her back is partly what keeps me up at night.
"It’s so much though."
"Shush.” She makes a zipping movement across her lips.
"I'm shushing."
She rolls her eyes at me, gets up and resumes fussing with the blankets.
"You going to put a mint on the pillow?" I tease her. She makes a face but doesn’t stop, pouring water into my glass and tidying up around the bedside table.
I take advantage of her not talking for once to ask her what's been on my mind since that afternoon.
"Hey, do we, do I know someone called Jez?"
Her hands instantly stop moving and turns back to face me. "What?"
"Jez. Does that name sound familiar to you."
She pauses and thinks, "Um, no. Should it?"
"I don't know."
"Then why do you ask?"
"Some guy came in here, like he knew me. he said his name is Jez, but... I don't, I don't remember him. Or maybe I don't even know him. I don't know which."
"Oh,” she waves her hand in the air, “Well, maybe he's just mistaken you for someone else."
"That's what I thought,” I admit, before adding, “Um, but he knows I don't like falafels."
Her expression doesn’t change. And she waits, like there's more.
"And?" She prompts me when I don’t add anything.
"And, that's it." My hands spread out, like, hey, I have nothing left.
She looks a little amused. "That's supposed to prove he knows you?"
"Well, doesn't it?" Even as I say it, it sounds a little far-fetched.
"Babe, how many people out there don't like falafels, it's not really that conclusive."
The door slides open and Robbie strolls in, carrying a tray.
"Hey, Robster.” Paige gives him one of her blinding smiles.
"What's up girly?" He gives her a chin tilt and a wink.
"I’m good. Say, do you like falafels?" She directs the question at him, but looks at me.
"Cannot say that I do.”
Paige gives me a little shrug. “See?”
"Yeah, but..." Ugh, it does mean, something. I know it does.
"Visiting time is over, ladies." Robbie’s deep voice interrupts our conversation.
"Aw, come on, Rob..." Paige starts to whine.
"Yes, even for you,” he says, giving her a grin to rival hers.
She scrunches her face up at him. "Fine. But I'll be back in a few days, there's a new Vietnamese place I want to try out.'
"See, now Vietnamese food, I like." Robbie nods.
"I'll bring you some rolls, if you let me stay for 5 minutes past visiting hours next time,” Paige negotiates.
"That’ll depend on how good the rolls are.”
She comes over and drops a kiss on my cheek. "Take care, okay, call me if you need anything. And seriously, stop worrying about being here. Just work on getting better. And coming home. We miss you."
"We?"
"Yeah, me... and Droopy.” Droopy, our dying spider plant.
"Droopy is still... alive?" That’s almost as hard to comprehend as the presence of this mystery man.
"I told you, I'm responsible now. I water him every other day."
I make a mock surprised face and she blows a raspberry before leaving.
Robbie watching her leave and then makes an action of wiping his brow. "Phew. it would be hard to be that girl's boyfriend."
"Try being her roommate,” I say, trying not to laugh.
"I feel like I have been!"
I wander over to the bed and slide into it. The linens are soft and silky. Paige insists on bringing me new sheets every time she comes. I can't help but think where I'd be if she hadn't taken it upon herself to take care of everything. What hospital I'd be at... or if I'd still be able to afford treatment at all. Instead, I'm being treated by the country's best doctors, in the most exclusive hospital in L.A. I don't know how I’ll ever be able to thank her.
Robbie comes over and hands me a cup with my medication from his tray.
"How are you feeling today?" His face is open and warm. I don’t know how they do this job day in, day out. But instead of showing that their caring is finite, the nurses here have shown me that the more you need them, the more they’re there for you. Heroes, in my eyes. At the very least, it makes me feel comfortable sharing with them about how I feel. Which is the whole point, of course.
"Honestly? I feel the best I’ve felt since I arrived."
He rewards my answer with a big smile. "Good. How's the noggin?” He knocks on his forehead with his knuckles.
"Feels good, physically, memory wise, not so good, apparently. I still can’t understand how… a time frame like that can just... disappear."
"Eh, that grey stuff is pretty delicate. And the memory’s still there, your brain has just got to get back to being able to access it."
"Well, work faster brain,” I say, waggling a finger at my own head.
"You tell it!” He pumps his fist, egging me on.
I wait until my laughter dies down before I swallow my pills. Robbie reaches into his pocket and hands me a small folded up piece of paper, taking the empty cup from me.
"Some night reading for you."
"What's this?" I frown, holding it between two fingers away from me.
"It's from another patient on this floor. He asked me to give it to you. I wrote it, so... I know it's nothing too offensive. But you tell me if you don't want me to pass any more along, okay?"
A note. From the mystery guy. Jez. Why?
"Uh… No. It's fine. Thank you."
"You got it. I'm going on break for a bit, just press the button if you need anything. Anything at all."
“Thanks, Robbie.” I’m too intrigued by the note to say anything more.
He gives me a wink and moonwalks out of my room, the sound of my giggles following him into the hall.
I look down at the note in my hand, and place it on the bed tray table in front of me; unopened, unread.
What am I afraid of? I know it's nothing hurtful or offensive or threatening. Robbie said he wrote it himself, and I’m sure he wouldn't have passed it on if it was anything bad.
What could it be? What could he possibly want to say to me?
Are you afraid to read it because he's a stranger or because there might be something in the note that will prove he does actually know you?
The answer is; I don’t know.
It took a while for the doctors to really measure the extent of my amnesia. When I finally came out of my coma, I recognized Paige, I recognized my parents, I recognized some of the work friends that had come in to visit in the early days. It wasn’t until specific question about events were asked that I realized, there were holes in my memory. Parts of my life I had lived, and didn’t remember.
Him, I don’t remember him.
How could I not remember him?
It feels like being in a fishbowl, the thought of someone out there knowing me and me not knowing them.
“Fuck it,” I say out loud to the TV. And grab the piece of paper from the table. I unfold it from its perfect quarter fold.
It opens, to two words scribbled in black ink.
Autumn Leaves.
I read it again. And again.
Autumn Leaves.
How?
How could he know this? My love affair with that word. With that kind of music?
HOW?!
I scrunch up the note and throw it across the room.
No. NO!
Just fucking relax, Noémie. Don't make more of this than it is. It could mean nothing at all. He's probably bored, looking out the same window you are. See the same trees starting to bloom into life, to welcome the rebirth of spring. It's no surprise you're having the same thoughts about nature.
But he's didn't say “spring fever” or “peach
blossoms.”
He said, Autumn Leaves.
A shiver dances slides down my spine, and I pull the blanket up to my chin, my whole body chilled.
No more notes from Robbie, I tell myself. No more.
I point the remote at the television, relying on it to distract me from my own life for a while.
It’s past midnight when I finally allow myself to switch the television off, mid late-night talk-show. And the scrunched-up note is still glaring at me from its spot on the floor across the room. I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking. Thinking about what it means.
I turn onto my side in bed, facing the window and there's a reflection of my ukulele against the glass pane. I haven't picked it up since he came into my room yesterday.
Him. That mystery man. Jez.
He looked like he knew me. He really did.
But there’s not even the slightest whisper of recognition in my mind. I’ve searched. I really have. I wish I did remember him. Because maybe I could be with him right now.
I'm not going to be able to sleep. That's clear at this point, I slip out of bed and pick up my ukulele. It's too late to play now, I don't want to disturb the other patients.
But I need to. It’s like an itch in the tips of my fingertips I just can’t scratch away.
And I can process the tangled thoughts in my brain when I play.
I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until yesterday and the notes had just come tumbling out of me.
Then that... guy. That stupid guy had to come into my room, my life, and scare me.
Screw that. Screw him.
I tuck the uke under my arm and poke my head out into the hallway. The nurse's station is empty, they must be busy with someone, I slip quietly past it, and tip toe down into the last room on the floor. It's the family room, where visitors can come and sit and visit with the patients, away from their private rooms. It's the only non-white room on the floor. It's carpeted and warm, there are couches and tables set out and book shelves full of books and games and large TVs mounted on the walls.
I slip inside and pull the door as far closed as I can. It’s heavy and there’s an open gap but I leave it.
The room is dark, there's just the soft, ambient light filtering through the gap in the door and the flickering LED lights on the electronic equipment.
