Page 9 of Love What's Left
“No.” My heart aches nearly as much as my tight throat, burning muscles, and the searing pain behind my eyes.Why?
“My name is Gabriel. You’re confused, but maybe . . . maybe the drugs aren’t completely out of your system. I’m sure everything will come back. What’s the last thing you remember?”
I can’t hold on to his name. I locked away my secrets, andthat namemay be the most precious one of all. “My name is Sydney Walsh McRae. I don’t know anything else. Put m-me down.”
He stands abruptly and carries me to my bed. Gently, he arranges me on the mattress, then covers me with a soft, sweet-smelling blanket, tucking it around me like I’m a little kid.
I jerk away from him, then stare wide-eyed, waiting for him to strike. To remind me who’s boss.
He steps backward, and I crane my neck to see his expression. To brace myself for whatever comes next, but darkness has cloaked his face entirely.
I shiver hard and roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around my knees and rocking in place. Despite my earlier fear, I miss the heat from his body. It isn’t weak to crave a human connection. It’s only a mistake if I give in to it.
“I’ll have the doctor reattach the EKG. Umm. Wait. First, I—hold on.” He walks to the other side of the room and picks up an orange, floppy lump curled on the foot of his bed. He returns immediately, holding it in his arms.
I frown, confused, and go motionless until he settles the soft, warm thing beside me. It shifts, a tail uncurling and flicking briefly. Then it purrs to beat the band. A cat. One who butts his head against my stomach and beneath my hand.
“I’mGabriel. This is Rufus.” He clears his throat. “We’re yours.”
My heart squeezes painfully.
“Dr. Granthy will be here soon to check on you. He’s sleeping just down the hall,” he says.
I close my eyes, curl my shaking body around the cat, and turn back to the mantra that’s worn a groove in my mind, slipping into it like water down a drainpipe. And I drown.
I open my mouth and swallow when they feed me. I let them move my limbs for exercise. I even walk when he guides me to the bathroom. When they prop me up, I sit. And, occasionally, my mind floats close enough to the surface that meaning filters through.
That beautiful man talks to me the most. He coaxes.Teases. Other times, the words roll like scattered gravel. Sometimes, he says nothing at all. He washes me. Brushes my hair and my teeth. Dresses me. When he lays his head next to mine, his breaths moving in and out in a slow, deep rhythm, I sleep, with dreams I don’t remember.
And when he wraps his arms around my middle and rests the weight of his head on my stomach, and he breathes in quiet, choking, wet gasps, my lips part. But words don’t come.
If I could sift my fingers through his hair, I’d do it. I’d hold him and make this better. I fight to take my body and mind back. Search for the connection between the two.
But I hid myself too well for too long. I’ve become a ship on a cloud-covered night, not a star in sight to guide me home. So I remain. Lost.
My body sits where they put me, but my mind is a soundtrack set on repeat.Each day, visitors come and go. An older couple tells the man he needs to take a break. He doesn’t listen. A pregnant woman cries and says this time it’s my turn to get my head out of my ass. Someone plops a blond toddler on my lap. I try to come back for that baby and the other little ones who call me Aunt Syddie.
I fail.
There are days and nights here. Darkness and light. Music.Cuddles.
When a new set of visitors enters my sanctuary, conversation penetrates my fog.
I’d started to hope—during those times when the mantra was quiet enough to make room for it—that I could be safe in this warm, clean place, with food that wouldn’t drug me and hands that wouldn’t hurt.
I was wrong.
“Sydney, these are your co-workers, Rob and Amelia. They brought you flowers.”
They wait, then the one called Rob clears his throat. “Is she like this all the time? Does she ever come out of it or talk . . . ?”
The woman sniffles loudly. “She will. She’s going to get better. She just needs time.”
“Do the doctors think that? Because she looks like somebody lobotomized her.”
“Rob, oh my God. Don’t be insensitive,” Amelia snaps.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk. I feel really sorry for her, but she left a mess at the lab. If this is permanent, we need to know so we can work out a different plan.”
