“I ran into a mutual acquaintance,” I say. “He told me she was here.”
The nurse just looks at me before he heads back down the hall —he doesn’t give a
damn. He just wants to go home.
When my eyes adjust to the room, I see her in the bed. What’s left of her hair lay in
strings across her scalp and looks to be the texture of cotton candy. But cotton candy gone
bad — grayed and left to molder in some unseen corner of neglect. Her eyes are closed and only
the very faint rise and fall of her body under a thin white blanket tells me she’s breathing.
I turn a way, orient myself. I need a second. I’m not even sure why I’m here.
The room is a nauseating pinkish color. I can’t imagine this engenders feelings of
health or wellness in anyone. Aren’t these places supposed to be in shades of blue or green,
like a sun-dappled pool or ocean? The view from the window is of a brick wall. If you crane
yourself one way, you can just make out the edge of the parking lot. There’s a tree there. But
you can only see a few branches of it and for only as long as you can stand to contort yourself
in the uncomfortable position required to spot it.
When I turn back to her, I say her name. But she does not move.
I move closer to her, but I dare not touch her.
I used to touch her. I used to touch her all over and every which way. But that was long
ago. Long before I reached middle age, a bit of a paunch around my waist and rather little hair
on my head. The nubile youthfulness of my once nearly hairless body is now spotted with
moles and scars, my flesh overrun with a coarse pelt as if all that left my head has migrated
south and multiplied like C diff.
“Mrs. Flanagan,” I whisper. Still, she doesn’t move. I won’t press it.
9
Made with FlippingBook Digital Publishing Software