At exactly 7 pm Lester walks through the door with a bunch of King Proteas.
We pore over the flowers. The hardy stems. Resilient leaves. The crown of spikes around the center and the velvet flower heads in shifting shades of blushed pink. On any other day their unrivalled beauty would have been a great conversation piece. But not today. Today the proteas are a reminder of perfection stuck in a vase, with a glimpse of its habitat on Table Mountain, and to detract from the sterility of a hospital ward. But it will wither and die.
“Such beauty. In time it will be tossed out, and land onto a rubbish heap.” I thank him for the flowers wondering about the flush of colour that set his cheeks alight. "You look as uncomfortable as those poor flowers in this ward." He looks around and walks to the basin, fills the mug he brought along and prop up the flowers in it.
"These guys are resilient and tough, like you," he says and places the mug next to the bed.
A silence descends upon us. Its awkwardness expands and expands until it transcends the sounds of the beeping machines and the smell of sanitiser.
"The surgeons were here today."
My fingers fidget with the white bedspread across my torso. Without any purpose they twist it, around and around two fingers drawing our eyes to the entanglement of my hands captured in a useless ritual.
"Surgeons as in plural?"
"Uhuh."
"What's still broken?" He asks without taking his eyes from me or releasing the crease that popped up between his brows.
"This." I gesture to my arm and leg. "Then there's my face. My eye... the vacancy of my memory..."
He lets out a sigh and glances around the ward without really seeing anything. "What about those?"
My hand goes to my face instinctively. "Tomorrow."
"You must-"
"Can I ask you to do something for me?"
His face settles into a quizzical expression. "Of course. I'll be here for as long as you need me."
"Take out the notebook and the keys, and go to my house. If there's a landline, call all the numbers. Tell them what happened to me."
"You have no idea who I am."
"I don't know my name... Where do I go when I get out of here? And when I'm home, who will help me? What about my employers? Goddammit, why is nobody looking for me!"
"I'm here."
His reassurance brings consolation and a weird sense of relief but not for long. "Can you do it?"
"It's the least I can do."
"How do I repay such kindness..."
"You don't. Concentrate on tomorrow. And getting better."
The anxiety erupts. It explodes into an avalanche of tears that flow without warning.
"Please don't cry. You will make me cry too..." He stands up and steps over to the basin for paper wipes.
"Here."
YOU ARE READING
GINGER AND BUBBLES
General FictionSusan Dorel Delheim is a single, independent recluse. Lonely and tormented by voices which she names Ginger and Bubbles, she struggles to hold onto her sanity. On the eve of a momentous presentation at her company she has an accident which erodes he...
