Willa Wakes

 

I float in an out of consciousness. Not new. Don’t recognize my surroundings. Also, not new.

The scent of fresh cut grass and a breeze to my right, but not my left. Must be an open window. I’m lying flat. Must be on a bed. Not enough energy to raise my head, so I start with an easy one. My right hand. Oh shit. I’m tied down again. The bed’s plastic. Another hospital.

That realization jolts me just enough to raise my head. The room is like fog, dull and fuzzy-coloured. Through the window I see bright grass and trees. Low sun blazes across blue mountains in the distance. Alberta? BC? Are the Rockies blue? No snow caps. Perhaps down south, somewhere warm? The breeze is cool.

The itching starts. Shit.

I look to the night stand on my left. Cup, pitcher and bowl of fruit. All plastic. Nothing to cut through the restraints or use as a weapon. The clock radio might have promise. I let that percolate while I search for meds. Nothing. The pitcher drips with condensation. There’s water in it – but not a drop to drink.  

“Hey, how you feeling?”

Julian. Better than a long drink of cold water. The itching stops. Shame replaces it. 

“Like shit.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Out of here.”

He sighs and scrapes a hardback chair across the room nearer to the bed, just far enough away that I can’t drink in his scent or hope for his touch. His stony face and brisk movements tell me what he thinks of my smartass answer.

“Maybe some water.” I amend, contritely.

He dutifully pulls the pitcher toward him, his face as unreadable as the early days when I was certain he hated me.

“I’m sorry.”

My words are puny and useless.