At the Seams

Chapter 10: Day 1 - 2:02 pm

Chapter 10: Day 1 – 2:02 pm

Sam enters Mary's room juggling his keys and her belongings. He drops the pajamas and the toothbrush on the bed near Mary's feet and fills the vase at the small sink in the corner of the room. He sits on the edge of Mary’s bed, careful not to squish her frail looking body beneath his weight. Sam brushes her hair back from her face, still beautiful, even swaddled in gauze and obscured by mechanisms. He longs to speak to her, to tell her he brought lilacs, her favorite. He wants to say, "Smell these flowers and come back home, Mary. Come back to me."

Sam cannot speak. Frustrated, pissed at his fear and loathing, his own unexplored dark corners, Sam merely stares. He holds the lilacs to Mary’s nose, now partially blocked by the feeding tube and ventilator.

Sam doesn’t hope for a miracle. He doesn’t search for a flaring of the nostril or a rolling of her stupidly blinking eye. In Sam's experience, vanished women don't return. He places the flowers on Mary’s bedside table and takes her bandaged, beleaguered face gently in his hands. He kisses her, a long, soft kiss, like the ones she used to give him when she was half asleep. He releases her and regains his post in the uncomfortable plastic chair by the door.

Some time later, a nurse, not Jackie, enters the room to check Mary. When the nurse finishes, Sam tells her he brought pajamas and points at the blue roll on the bed.

"Do you want me to show you how to change her?" the smiling nurse offers.

An expression of repulsion, an instinctive grimace he cannot check before it escapes his subconscious, steals over Sam's face. He regains himself, but not soon enough.

The nurse's smile falters. “I’ll take care of her,” she says. Sam reads her confusion as disapproval and rises to escape the room. As he heads toward the vending machines for some coffee-flavored crude oil, he tries not to care what the nurse thinks of him. He tries not to wonder what kind of man he might be.

Mary dreams.

She and Sam sit at the funky little bistro table amid her stepchildren in the Rabbit Hole. A silver platter, offering a tower of croissants, fresh fruit, and baked brie, adorns the table's center. China coffee cups in a delicate blue lace pattern rest on the vibrant, lacquered surface before the unreal diners. Tendrils of steam drift from the cups, carrying in their moist, microscopic components the decadent smells of Portuguese roast and fresh cardamom, a scent akin to cinnamon.

Mary lifts her cup, pinky finger extended, and sips, relishing the exhilarating flavors. She replaces the cup, enjoying the clink as the china settles into its divot. She plucks a Concord grape, deepest purple and taut with juice, from the silver platter and pops it into her mouth, smiling as the orb bursts its sweet, squishy insides onto her tongue. Mary looks up at Sam. Her smile vanishes. The grape rests forgotten on the back of her tongue, until it slips toward her windpipe. Mary swallows, the fruit a rock in her throat and stomach.

Sam gazes at her, his expression inscrutable. His eyebrows draw close together, unite into a worried line. His lips, normally broad and thick, disappear in a gray slash in his face. His jaw thrusts forward, the corners of his mouth weighted by some deep concern. His blue eyes, threatening to explode from his skull, gaze intently at Mary. "Babe?" Mary says, but gets no reply.

Still holding Mary with his gaze, Sam rises and reaches over the small table to take her face in his hands. He touches his forehead to hers and kisses her. Oddness slips away in the familiarity of Sam's lips. Mary’s eyes drift closed and she relaxes into the embrace. She hopes it will never end. Great kisses should go on forever.

The kiss does end, full seconds before Mary realizes it. When she opens her eyes, Sam and the Rabbit Hole are gone. Mary is in her cave, the torch burning at her feet. She reaches down and scoops up the torch, looking around for the almond-shaped screen, of which there is no sign. "What the hell?"