Last Summer(2)

Damien removes a cardboard take-out container with a Luna’s Café sticker from the bag. Luna’s is their favorite café around the corner from their Russian Hill flat. They eat there most Saturdays. Ella frowns. What day is it?

Saturday. She’s sure of it, because last night was Friday. She cooked Damien dinner.

Damien opens the box, bending back the flaps. Steam rises, carrying the scent of cooked onions and bell peppers. Ella’s stomach turns over. He positions the food tray over the bed. Ella instinctively recoils, scooting out of the way. Jagged pain tears through her lower abdomen. Her left wrist throbs from putting pressure on it. She gasps, a sharp, audible intake of air.

“Easy now.” Damien presses a button on a panel attached to the bed rail. Slowly, the head of the bed rises. Ella stares at her splinted wrist. She slips her other hand under the covers, searching for the source of discomfort as her husband adjusts pillows behind her shoulders. Gauze and tape over her pelvic region meet her wandering fingers.

“What happened to me?”

Damien gives her a tired smile. His fingers lovingly caress her cheek. “Relax.” He points at the food in front of her. “Eat up before Nurse Grouchypants catches a whiff and makes me toss it.”

She watches the steam diminish as the omelet cools. She turns her face away, sickened by the smell.

Damien pops open his oatmeal. He shovels a spoonful of the ungarnished oats into his mouth. He eats his oatmeal plain, and he’s eating ravenously. Ella wonders when he last ate. When did she last eat? Did she even eat the dinner she cooked?

He glances up to find her watching him.

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve hardly eaten this week.”

This week?

Damien nudges the food tray closer to her. “You need your strength to recover.”

Recover from what?

“Why am I here?” She kneads the bedsheet.

The spoon pauses midway between the cardboard cup and his mouth. “What?”

“Why am I in the hospital?” She truly doesn’t know and tries to recall the past week. Checking into the hospital. Talking to a doctor. Eating the horrible food hospitals are known for. She can sense the memories are there. She reaches for them, stretching. She tries to grasp them, to hold on to something, anything about what landed her in a hospital bed with a splinted wrist and taped-up abdomen. She comes up empty-handed, confused and bewildered.

Damien stares at her like she’s asked the most ridiculous question, which she probably did. Ella feels like she should know. She licks her lips. They’re chapped. Her throat hurts when she swallows, and she aches everywhere—muscle, bone, and tissue. Everything about her situation feels wrong—her body, this place, Damien carrying on as if her being laid up in a hospital bed is their new normal.

Damien remains speechless, his lips slightly parted. The skin between his brows creases and his eyes dip down. He drops the plastic spoon in the oatmeal and sets the cup on the table. When he still doesn’t say anything, Ella pushes away the food cart and shoves down the sheets. A hospital gown bunches at the juncture of her thighs. She jerks up the hem, exposing her stomach, and gapes. Bigger than she’s ever seen it and spongy to the touch, her stomach looks like a partially filled air mattress. A large square gauze pad is taped to her pelvis.

She starts picking at the gauze. She needs to see what’s underneath.

“Ella, stop.” Damien grasps her wrists and she hisses. “Sorry.” He releases her braced wrist but keeps a firm grip on the other, holding her hand away from her.

She struggles. She needs to see what was done to her. “Let go.”

“Settle down. You’ll pull your staples.”

“Staples? What did they do to me?” she cries.

“Are you serious?” Damien asks, his face inches from hers.

“Tell me.”

“Don’t screw with me like this. It’s not fair.” He releases her wrist and backs away.

“I swear I can’t remember why I’m here. I can’t remember anything.”

“Bullshit, Ella.” He vigorously shakes his head. “I call bullshit.”

“Why are you upset with me? I’m not lying.”

Damien crosses the room and stares out the window. Sunlight too intense to be early morning brightens the rigid angles of his face. His cheek flexes, his tell that he’s disturbed.

Ella draws the sheet up to her breasts. She feels exposed, lost. She doesn’t want to be here.

She wants to go home. Better yet, she wants to wake up from this dream.

That must be it. She’s still dreaming.

She pokes at the bandage on the back of her hand, where an IV must have been inserted at some point. The area feels tender. Bile rises. The room, the equipment, her injuries. It’s all real.

From across the room, Damien warily eyes her. She stares at him in horror. “Say something. I’m freaking out over here.”

“You really don’t remember?”

Ella slowly shakes her head.

“Do you remember the car accident?”

Her heart plunges into her stomach. “No.”

Damien closes in on her. “What about Simon?”

“Who’s Simon?”

His face blanches. “Our son,” he whispers.

Ella would laugh if she weren’t so terrified. They don’t have children. Damien doesn’t want kids. “That’s not funny.”