by Emma Scott
“No,” I said. “I can’t.”
Her gaze dropped to my hand on the table and her fingers reached to trace the scars on my knuckles.
“These tell a story, don’t they?” She traced one of the fine lines on my first knuckle. “You put your hand in with the snakes, too.”
I nodded slowly, savoring the feel of her warm skin on mine. “So they’d leave me alone.”
“And did they?”
“Eventually.”
“I’m glad.” She put her hand in mine completely, her fingers wrapping around and holding tight. “I’m being too… something. Personal. Delia would throw a fit, but I feel like…”
“Like what, Thea?”
“Like I have to hold on to this moment, you know? Or you… I don’t even know you and yet I don’t want to stop talking to you.” Her hand squeezed mine. “I don’t care if you have a stutter, but please keep talking to me, Jimmy. Okay?”
My mouth went dry at the nameless desperation in her eyes.
Jesus, does she know she’s trapped? She can’t. Impossible…
“I won’t,” I said. “I’ll talk to you every day. I promise.”
Thea breathed a small sigh of relief and released my hand. “Thank you. That makes me feel better.”
With a final smile—a parting smile, I realized—she took up her pen and then froze.
She’s resetting.
Confusion passed over her features. She looked up at me, flinching a little to see a big man in close proximity. I instantly leaned back to give her space.
“How long has it been?” she asked.
“Two years,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper. “But the doctors are working on your case.”
“Yes, they are.” She smiled hesitantly and found my nametag. “I’m Thea Hughes.”
Seven. Seven times now.
“Jim Whelan,” I said.
She offered her hand. Again. I took it robotically, enduring her one-pump shake. Again. Her fingers didn’t linger in mine but released immediately, the way you do with a stranger.
“Nice to meet you, Jim Whelan.”
Fuck. I can’t do this.
I rose to my feet. “I have to get to work.”
Her face fell. “Oh. Bummer. Will I see you again?”
I could promise her I would, but she wouldn’t remember. There was no promise. I could tell her the sky was falling or my name was Abraham Lincoln and she wouldn’t know the damn difference. It’d vanish, like every other word we’d ever spoken to each other. I vanished every time her reset hit and was recreated over again in Thea’s eyes. I could be whatever I wanted; whomever I wanted. And yet she was the one woman I might’ve had a chance to be myself with.
The terrible irony of it was like copper in my mouth.
“Sure, Miss Hughes,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 5
Thea
(five minutes earlier)
I open my eyes for the first time.
A beautiful man sits across from me. Strong and built. His hands are large, his knuckles scarred. His biceps and forearms are cut with lean muscle. He’s wearing white. A uniform?
At the next table sits an old man with a dent in his head.
Am I in a hospital?
Yes, because there was an accident and now I’m back.
Jesus, how long have I been away?
My heart pounds and blood rushes to my ears. My hand is clutching a pen and my knuckles hurt. It’s hard to breathe. There was the accident, and now I’m here in this room. But how long between then and now? How did I get here? How much time have I lost?
“How long has it been?” I ask the beautiful man.
“Two years,” he says in a low voice, almost a whisper. “But the doctors are working on your case.”
He’s right. The doctors are working on my case. That’s one of the Things I Know.
My name is Thea Hughes.
There’s been an accident.
The doctors are working on my case.
This man knew that, which means he must know me somehow. My hands unclench a little.
“Yes,” I say. “They are.”
But two years? God, I’ve been away a long time, but I’m back now. I ease a sigh of relief and the panic ebbs. Still, I can’t find… something. Something is lost and I need to find it. If only I knew what it was.
I find the guy’s nametag. Jim.
Jim is beautiful. And sexy. His sexiness is like a black leather jacket—it makes any outfit look good on him. He doesn’t sprawl in the chair, doesn’t man-spread like he owns the furniture or like he’s commanding the room to pay attention to him. His posture is quiet, arms crossed on the table, shoulders a little hunched. He doesn’t know how sexy he is, which makes him even more delicious. I fight a crazy urge to press my face into the crook of his neck and inhale him. Can’t help it. I haven’t been touched in forever. No sex. No food. No drink. Nothing.
Instead, I offer my hand. Delia is always yapping at me to be polite. And not that I mind touching this guy. “I’m Thea Hughes.”
He sounds almost disappointed as he answers, “Jim Whelan.”
Even his name is sexy. Masculine. Solid. But a softness lurks in him, making him more like a Jimmy than a Jim. I’m about to say so when a sudden, pained look crosses his handsome features and he rises to his feet.
“I have to get to work.”
Disappointment bites me deep. I don’t like being alone. A silence loiters on the outskirts of Jim and me—tight and airless—and it’s so scary.
“Oh. Bummer,” I say casually, hiding my desperation. “Will I see you again?”
Please say yes, Jimmy Whelan.
He hesitates, his dark eyes gazing intently into mine. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, I want him to find it.
“Sure, Miss Hughes,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then the beautiful, handsome man in a white uniform gets up and walks away.
I miss him already. I wish he’d come back. He has such kind eyes. Built like a brick wall with a sturdy jaw shaded with stubble, yet he’s not intimidating to me. He’s a good man. I want to keep talking to him.
He seemed reluctant to leave.
Maybe he’s lonely.
Maybe I’ll go find him and ask if he wants to hang out. Nothing serious. We just met, for crying out loud. But seeing him again feels like something that would be good for me.
I start to rise out of my chair when my eye catches a drawing on the table in front of me. It’s an Egyptian landscape—a tall pyramid casting a long shadow under a blazing sun.
Did I draw this? Of course. Obviously, it’s here in front of me, along with pens and colored markers. I must’ve started it before the accident. I should finish it. It’s been two years. I’ll finish it now. I uncap a Magic Marker, wishing I had canvas and paint. Maybe Delia will bring some for me when she comes. Or Mom and Dad.
I miss them. I try to remember their faces, to recall one moment of our lives before the accident.
I can’t. When I look, I see emptiness. Like a vast desert of space with no walls but no air moving either. Fear starts to dig into my stomach, and I reach for the markers. Something I can hold in my hand. I add color to the sky. When it’s done, I pick up the ballpoint. Tiny words loop out from under my pen and fill the shadow beneath the pyramid.
Strong stone moan groan lone alone lonely lowly low slow such scratch scar scar scar
It doesn’t make sense. Words and words and words, saying nothing.
A person who studies words is an etymologist.
How is this a Thing I Know? Did I study words in college? Did I go to college? I try to remember. Something. Anything.
Silence in my mind.
Emptiness.
I’m lost…
My heart pounds and blood rushes to my ears. I read the words beneath the pyramid again.
Strong stone moan groan lone alone lonely
Jimmy is
lonely. The words are about Jimmy.
Who is Jimmy?
Dark hair and eyes. Kind eyes. And a uniform. Was it white…?
Was what white?
I don’t know. I can’t see anymore. I can’t remember…
I open my eyes for the first time.
There’s an old man with a dented head at the next table.
Am I in a hospital?
Yes, because there was an accident and now I’m back.
Jesus, how long have I been away?
My heart pounds and blood rushes to my ears. My hand is clutching a pen and my knuckles hurt. It’s hard to breathe. There was the accident, and now I’m here in this room. But how long between then and now? How did I get here? How much time have I lost?
A petite woman in a blue uniform is hurrying to me. A nurse. Her nametag says Rita.
“How long has it been?” I ask.
“Two years, Miss Hughes,” Rita says. “The doctors are working on your case.”
She’s right. The doctors are working on my case. That’s one of the Things I Know.
My name is Thea Hughes.
There’s been an accident.
The doctors are working on my case.
This nurse knew that, which means she must know me somehow. My hands unclench a little.
Still, I can’t find… something. It’s lost and I need to find it. If only I knew what it was.
“This is a beautiful pyramid,” Rita says, tapping the paper on the table in front of me. It’s a picture of an Egyptian desert under a blazing sun, a pyramid casting a long, dark shadow.
I smile. “Thank you. I must’ve done it before the accident.”
Rita has a sweet smile and I feel safe with her. There’s a terror lurking in being alone. I think I’ve been alone for a long time.
I wish I had a canvas and paint. Maybe Delia will bring me some when she comes. Or Mom and Dad. I miss them. I try to remember their faces, to recall one moment of our lives before the accident.
I can’t. When I look, I see emptiness. Like a vast desert of space with no walls but no air moving either. Fear starts to dig into my stomach. I’m holding a pen. It’s solid and real in my hand and the panic ebbs. I put it to the paper and tiny words loop out and fill the shadow beneath the pyramid.
Was what white wrote rote rip trip snip snap map mapped trapped trapped trapped
It doesn’t make sense.
Rita touches my arm. “This is coming along beautifully.”
I smile back with relief. I need her words. I’m starving for them. For touch. Sound. Conversation. It’s so quiet in here.
“Thanks,” I say. “Have you worked here long?”
I feel like I should know the answer to that question. I feel like I should know Rita but I don’t.
“A few years,” Rita says. “Would you like something to drink?”
God, yes. I haven’t had anything to drink in years. “A lemonade would be perfect,” I say.
Is it? I know what lemonade is but I can’t remember how it tastes. Or how I got here.
Rita smiles. “I’ll be right back.” She taps the corner of my drawing. “Can’t wait to see what you add next. You’re very talented, Miss Hughes.”
“Thank you.”
Rita gets up and I go back to drawing. I add some color to the words within the pyramid’s shadow. Magic Markers aren’t really my preferred medium, but Delia’s always telling me not to be so picky. I can’t help it if I prefer paint to pens. Painting is like breathing. Egypt is life.
A person who studies Egypt is an Egyptologist.
How is this a Thing I Know? Did I study Egypt in college? Did I go to college? I try to remember. Something. Anything.
Silence in my mind.
Emptiness.
I’m lost…
My heart pounds and blood rushes to my ears. It’s suffocating, this quiet. Vast but constricting. A little box with no walls.
I read the words within the pyramid. Trapped.
Trapped where?
I don’t know. I don’t know where I am anymore. I can’t remember.
I open my eyes for the first time…
Chapter 6
Jim
My mornings blurred into a routine of sameness. My own endless loop. The alarm went off at six; I made coffee and showered while it was brewing. Poured a cup and took it back to the bathroom. Wiped steam off the mirror to trim my thin beard. The guy in the mirror looked tough. Muscles built up from long hours in the garage lifting weights. Hard eyes. Mouth a grim line that rarely opened to speak.
Tough guy, eh? You’re a coward. Doris sneered. She compared you to Marc Antony? What a crock.
“She’s none of my business,” I said.
The guy in the mirror mouthed along, but I’d been keeping a mental clock in the back of my mind all morning. Making coffee: five minutes. Drinking a cup: five minutes. Showering: five minutes. Shaving: five minutes.
A progression throughout the morning while Thea was trapped in minutes of consciousness at a time. A fucking nightmare. Not mine but terrifying anyway.
I had to believe Thea wasn’t aware of her prison. I’d seen a desperation in her eyes, but I wasn’t qualified to say what it meant. She looked happy enough with her pens and paper, working on her endless word chains, sometimes with a faint smile on her face.
Who was I to say she was suffering?
No one, Doris supplied helpfully. You’re no one.
My shift at Blue Ridge began with a frantic text from Alonzo, ordering me to Mr. Perello’s room on the third floor. Perello was an Army vet who served in Afghanistan. A roadside explosion sent an iron rod through his eye socket. He was a friendly guy until his traumatic brain injury triggered bouts of angry hysteria.
“You don’t know where I’ve been!” he cried, fighting the combined efforts of Joaquin and Alonzo to restrain him while the duty nurse prepared a sedative. “You don’t know what I’ve seen!”
His flailing arm caught Alonzo across the face. Alonzo staggered back, and I quickly stepped in. Quickly and carefully—the man was Army tough, and the rage gave him added strength. It took everything I had to hold him against the wall so he wouldn’t hurt himself or anyone else.
“You don’t know!” Mr. Perello seethed, his face inches from mine. A black eye patch over his left eye. “You fucking assholes think you got it all figured out. But you don’t know shit.”
“Now, Mr. P,” Joaquin said. “Calm down—”
“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down. I’ll teach you to show some respect. You don’t know what I know.”
“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t know.”
Spittle hit my jaw as his head whipped toward me. “Shut your mouth,” he cried. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”
“I never would, sir,” I said.
“I’ve seen shit.”
“Yes, you have,” I said. “We can’t even imagine what you saw.”
“I earned some respect, goddammit,” Mr. P said, the fight draining out of him. “I earned it over there in that goddamn desert that you’ll never have to see.”
“You did. And we’re grateful for it.”
Mr. Perello stopped struggling and the duty nurse swooped in with the syringe.
“There you go, Mr. P,” Joaquin said, easing the man on his bed. “You’re going to take a nap now and feel much better when you wake up.”
Mr. Perello went limp and we let him go.
“You okay, boss?” Joaquin asked.
“I’m okay.” Alonzo wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. “Getting too old for this.”
Joaquin slapped my shoulder as we exited the room. “Well, holy shit, rookie. I was beginning to think you didn’t talk at all, but you knew just what to say to Mr. P.”
I shrugged. “I told him the truth.”
Alonzo nodded. “Indeed. You did good, Jim. Real good.”
“Thanks.”
I coasted on that real good the rest of the day, Joaquin’s shoulder sl
ap boosting me along. Fate kept Thea out of my sight and work kept her easily out of my thoughts. My job felt solid in my hands.
Late in the afternoon, I took the mop and bucket into the rec room, just as Thea left with Rita. She had a small smile on her face.
Because she’s happy enough. Keep doing your job. Just like you did with Mr. Perello.
I hummed a little “Sweet Child O’ Mine” as I moved to clean up Thea’s table. Rita had left Thea’s markers and a few sheets of paper behind. I gathered them and the markers to take to her shelf.
I stopped in mid-stride.
I’d seen Thea’s drawings before, but I hadn’t really looked. I was looking now.
The word chain I’d asked Rita about had been one of hundreds. Thousands. This drawing of a pyramid under an Egyptian sun was crawling with them. Tiny, precise penmanship as small as typeset. Every detail of the drawing crafted from words, with the marker colors over them.
Are they all made out of word chains? Impossible.
I grabbed the stack of drawings on Thea’s shelf. The first showed another pyramid in the Egyptian desert. So did the one beneath that. And the one beneath that. The entire stack was drawings of ancient Egypt, some with Cleopatra wearing her blue and gold-striped headdress and gold bracelets circling her upper arms. Some showed Marc Antony at the head of a fleet of warships, his sword held high and glinting in the sun.
Every single image was crafted out of words. Chains of words. Pointillism paintings made of letters instead of dots.
Tomb loom soon moon moan groan grown sown lone lost lost lost
I turned one page at an angle to read the tiny script that created a black cat basking in the sun.
Cat sat sang sting wing wasp was wasn’t mustn’t must trust lust last gasp gone gone gone
Shadows cast across the desert sand were a sea of words in black ink and shaded over in gray. One line jumped out at me.
Dark mark lark lap trap trapped tripped ripped rope hope soak sing screen scream scream scream
“Holy shit.”
These weren’t just word chains. These were strings of pain. And at the end of every one, the theme. The period at the end of Thea’s sentence. A repetition, like the echo of a voice calling out from somewhere deep and dark.
