[2014] The Time Traveler's Wife
Page 8
“Now what?” Stefan asked.
“We try again” Tracy replied, hopeful.
A Bushel of Salt
John woke the next morning, heavy headed from the sedatives. He woke to the sound of muffled voices from the other side of the door. It sounded like the mad ramblings of a museum curator, gleefully detailing the hospital’s latest exhibit; his symptoms, his history, his prescribed treatment and quietly, so as not to arouse discomfort or appear to be gossiping, pointing out the oddly mannered, shapely woman with strange obnoxious hair, in the corner who was preparing medication into cups and piling feces stained sheets into laundry hampers.
“She’s his wife,” The Doctor said to his students.
“Is she a nurse here?” the most astute of the students asked.
“Yes, she is. In fact, it was here that they first met and where they fell in love. Fourteen years ago if I’m correct.” The Doctor said.
“Is that even permitted?”
“It isn’t ‘not’ permitted per se. In certain circumstances, who am I to stand in the way of love?”
“You’re a medical practitioner. You’re pragmatic. So you can stand in the way of love.”
“I am just a voice of reason,” The Doctor said “Per se.”
“Is this in the test?” a student asked.
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders. As he walked to the next room, the students took turns peering into the glass window at John who was rousing from a medicated stupor, shaking his head, and looking mean and uncomfortable, back at the face through the glass.
“Come along,” The Doctor said. “Don’t dilly daddle.”
The students all followed, leaving John alone on his mattress.
“Good morning Tracy,” The Doctor said.
“Good morning sir,” she said back.
“I really thought this time he would make it you know? How long was it? Six months? A year?”
“We had twenty one days doctor.”
“My god that is impressive. That is progress. You are a wonderful and dedicated wife, a diligent and inspiring nurse and you are a good person. You should be proud of yourself. We will make him better you know, we’ll find a fix to this memory problem of his.”
“I’m sure we will doctor” Tracy replied.
When the doctor and his students left, Tracy wheeled her cart towards John’s room and stared through the window as the man sitting on his bed. She had seen him like this, scores of times, and she would see like this, many scores of times more; until her love was strong enough to keep him rooted in her heart and her, in his thoughts and in his memories. But it hurt her to see him like this, to feel as she felt but for his touch to be so cold and foreign.
“Hi, John. It’s time for your medication” she said.
She wheeled the cart to the bed and sat down beside him, resting one hand on his leg.
“My name is John?” he asked.
“It is. Do you know where you are John?”
“Is this a hospital?” he asked.
“It is John. This is a hospital John and you are a patient. Do you know who I am John?”
John looked confused. He stared at her as if she were a corner he had never turned.
“Are you a nurse?” he asked.
“I am,” she said. “My name is Tracy. And I’m your nurse” she said, hinting to nothing more.
“My head is sore,” John said, pressing his face against her shoulder.
Tracy rested her hand against the back of his head and slowly caressed his hair.
“We’ve been through worse baby” she whispered, so softly that he couldn’t hear. “Please hold on. I love you so much” she said, a single tear, escaping from the crux of her tightly shut eyes and landing onto John’s arid lips.
When she left, John stretched the cramping from his body and walked up to the window. As he watched as the nurse wheeled her cart around, ignoring the cursing and agitated pointing of crazed patients and impatient doctors, he noticed how different and unlike the other nurses she was; how her crazy hair sprung up and down all wild and free like an untrimmed hedge, and how her skin glimmered in a certain way that made him think of how the shadows shaped themselves inside his room when the sun set through the backs of the sycamore trees that grew in the field by the window, outside of his room.
He watched her as if she were the only person that existed, as if it were just him and her. The desire to be close to her, to hear her voce shivering the jittery nerves, was overwhelming. He wanted to touch her hand and feel what it was like to make her shiver, to feel the tiny bumps running under his fingers. He wanted to press his face against her neck and smell once more, the light drizzle of lemon tea that aroused from her soft skin. He wanted to stare at her forever, as she was and be still in amazement that such beauty existed.
He wanted to be a part of her world.
He wanted her to be a part of his.
He wanted to know everything about her.
And never tire.
And never be alone.
He wanted this feeling to last forever.
husband, father, son, brother, philosopher, story teller, recluse
Also by C. Sean McGee:
A Rising Fall (CITY b00k 001)
Utopian Circus (CITY b00k 011)
Heaven is Full of Arseholes
Coffee and Sugar
Christine
Rock Book Volume I: The Boy from the County Hell
Rock Book Volume II: Dark Side of the Moon
Alex and The Gruff (a tale of horror)
The Terror{blist}
The Anarchist (or about how everything I own is covered in a fine red dust)
Happy People Live Here
StalkerWindows:
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BathroomWindow
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LibraryWindow
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[1] I don’t know what’s wrong with this sentence, feeding & on a diet, I would prefer ‘feeding his subconscious a combination of fear stress and ………’or ‘keeping his subconscious on a diet of fear stress and….’ I really don’t know why it feels wrong