Occasionally her interior world lacked concreteness, was only a domain of colors and sounds and aromas, without form or texture, and she drifted through it, wondering and amazed. Often there was music — Elton John, Three Dog Night, Nilsson, Marvin Gaye, Jim Croce, the voices of her time — and the colors swirled and exploded to accompany the songs, a light show so dazzling that the real world could never produce its equal.
Even during one of those amorphous phases, the magic country within her head could darken and become a fearful place. The colors grew clotted and somber; the music discordant, ominous. She felt that she was being swept away by an icy and turbulent river, choking on its bitter waters, struggling for breath but finding none, then breaking the surface and gasping in lungsful of sour air, frantic, weeping, praying for delivery to a warm dry shore.
Once in a while, as now, she surfaced from the false worlds within her and became aware of the reality in which she actually existed. Muffled voices in adjacent rooms and hallways. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes. The pine scent of disinfectant, medicinal aromas, sometimes (but not now) the pungent odor of urine. She was swaddled in crisp, clean sheets, cool against her fevered flesh. When she disentangled her right hand from the bedding and reached out blindly, she found the cold steel safety railing on the side of her hospital bed.
At first she was preoccupied by the need to identify a strange sound. She did not try to rise up, but held fast to the railing and was perfectly still, listening intently to what initially seemed to be the roar of a great crowd in a far arena. No. Not a crowd. Fire. The chuckling-whispering-hissing of an all-consuming blaze. Her heart began to pound, but at last she recognized the fire for what it was: its opposite, the quenching downpour of a major storm.
She relaxed slightly — but then a rustle arose nearby, and she froze again, wary. “Who’s there?” she asked, and was surprised that her speech was thick and slurred.
“Ah, Jennifer, you’re with us.”
Jennifer. My name is Jennifer.
The voice had been that of a woman. She sounded past middle-age, professional but caring.
Jennifer almost recognized the voice, knew she had heard it before, but she was not calmed.
“Who are you?” she demanded, disconcerted that she was unable to rid herself of the slur.
“It’s Margaret, dear.”
The tread of rubber-soled shoes, approaching.
Jennifer cringed, half expecting a blow but not sure why.
A hand took hold of her right wrist, and Jennifer flinched.
“Easy, dear. I only want to take your pulse.”
Jennifer relented and listened to the rain.
After a while, Margaret let go of her wrist. “Fast but nice and regular.”
Memory slowly seeped back into Jennifer. “You’re Margaret?”
“That’s right.”
“The day nurse.”
“Yes, dear.”
“So it’s morning?”
“Almost three o’clock in the afternoon. I go off-duty in an hour. Then Angelina will take care of you.”
“Why am I always so confused when I first… wake up?”
“Don’t worry about it, dear. There’s nothing you can do to change it. Is your mouth dry? Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, please.”
“Orange juice, Pepsi, Sprite?”
“Juice would be nice.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Footsteps receding. A door opening. Left open. Above the sound of the rain, busy noises from elsewhere in the building, other people on other errands.
Jennifer tried to shift to a more comfortable position in the bed, whereupon she rediscovered not merely the extent of her weakness but the fact that she was paralyzed on her left side. She could not move her left leg or even wiggle her toes. She had no feeling in her left hand or arm.
A deep and terrible dread filled her. She felt helpless and abandoned. It seemed a matter of the utmost urgency that she recall how she had gotten in this condition and into this place.
She lifted her right arm. Although she realized that it must be thin and frail, it felt heavy.
With her right hand, she touched her chin, her mouth. Dry, rough lips. They had once been otherwise. Men had kissed her.
A memory glimmered in the darkness of her mind: a sweet kiss, murmured endearments. It was but a fragment of a recollection, without detail, leading nowhere.
She touched her right cheek, her nose. When she explored the left side of her face, she could feel it with her fingertips, but her cheek itself did not register her touch. The muscles in that side of her face felt… twisted.
After a brief hesitation, she slid her hand to her eyes. She traced their contours with her fingertips, and what she discovered caused her hand to tremble.
Abruptly she remembered not only how she had wound up in this place but everything else, her life back to childhood all in a flash, far more than she wanted to remember, more than she could bear.
She snatched her hand away from her eyes and made a thin, awful sound of grief. She felt crushed under the weight of memory.
Margaret returned, shoes squeaking softly.
The glass clinked against the nightstand when she put it down.
“I’ll just raise the bed so you’ll be able to drink.”
The motor hummed, and the head of the bed began to lift, forcing Jennifer into a sitting position.
When the bed stopped moving, Margaret said, “What’s wrong, dear? Why, I’d think you were trying to cry… if you could.”
“Does he still come?” Jennifer asked shakily.
“Of course, he does. At least twice a week. You were even alert on one of his visits a few days ago. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I… I…”
“He’s very faithful.”
Jennifer’s heart was racing. A pressure swelled across her chest. Her throat was so tight with fear that she had trouble speaking: “I don’t… don’t…”
“What’s the matter, Jenny?”
“… don’t want him here!”
“Oh, now, you don’t mean that.”
“Keep him out of here.”
“He’s so devoted.”
“No. He’s… he’s…”
“At least twice a week, and he sits with you for a couple of hours, whether you’re with us or wrapped up inside yourself.”
Jennifer shuddered at the thought of him in the room, by the bed, when she was not aware of her surroundings.
She reached out blindly, found Margaret’s arm, squeezed it as tightly as she could. “He’s not like you or me,” she said urgently.
“Jenny, you’re upsetting yourself.”
“He’s different.”
Margaret put her hand on Jennifer’s, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Now, I want you to stop this, Jenny.”
“He’s inhuman.”
“You don’t mean that. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“He’s a monster.”
“Poor baby. Relax, honey.” A hand touched Jennifer’s forehead, began to smooth away the furrows, brush the hair back. “Don’t get yourself excited. Everything’ll be all right. You’re going to be fine, baby. Just settle down, easy now, relax, you’re safe here, we love you here, we’ll take good care of you….”
After more of that, Jennifer grew calmer — but no less afraid.