Roses in December
Chapter 3
The third time the guy with the unbuttoned shirts comes, he sneaks me in some contraband: Wendy's french fries and a Coke. "I come bearing sustenance," he says softly, in a tone devoid of fanfare. "It'll get you through a round or two." He's dealing from a deck of cards, and I've found another way to stretch my brain.
His name is Warrick Brown. "I wonder how you can remember to associate brown with me," he muses, and I laugh. In spite of the fact that I don't know him, he's immediately comfortable with me, stealing french fries and teasing me about my bony arms. We start off playing War, which he loftily claims was named after him, then we move on to blackjack and poker.
I ask him about his childhood and he tells me stories about his strict grandmother and the secrets of casino gambling. He says he grew up under the glow of neon lights. I want to call him Neon Warrick, but it sounds too much like Dionne Warwick.
"If you were so good at gambling, why didn't you do it as a career?" I ask.
His face tenses for the first time. "Because I was better than that."
"That's your grandma talking." I don't know how I knew that, but from his expression I was right. I wonder if his grandmother's eyes are the color of limes and honeydew. They're probably not, and this makes me inexplicably sad.
I finish the fries and sigh with satisfaction. "Thanks for bringing those, I can't seem to keep any of this hospital food down."
He lifts the lid off my tray, frowning. "Sara. this is a hamburger."
"Yeah, so?"
"You're a vegetarian."
Another bit of information that would have been nice to know. I'm angry again. It comes on so fast, this dizzying fury, and I try to push it down my throat. It eases down my esophagus, through my stomach and into my liver. The liver is interesting, because it regenerates, almost like it's alive. Live-r. I should ask Gil if there's a connection.
I've been meeting with a psychologist every day. She shows me pictures of inkblots, and they all look like butterflies to me. Sometimes I stare at the blots too long, imagining that they're still wet, that if I hold the card up the ink will run down and pool onto the table. The psychologist frowns, then, and scribbles on her notepad. It used to bother me when she did that, until I told myself that she was writing "Jeremiah was a bullfrog" over and over. Pages and pages of notes, judgmental scribbles about Jeremiah the disappointing bullfrog. Maybe she's the one who needs therapy.
Something is coming, I can tell. Gil and Dr. Shedden are whispering every day now, and the nurses don't force me to eat like they used to.
Catherine arrives armed with issues of Vogue and Cosmopolitan, pointing out the latest fashions and hairstyles. I run my finger along a glossy page, leaving my fingerprint on the protruding ribs of a model. When I tell Catherine that the girl needs a good meal, she smiles and tells me I'm sounding like Sara.
She's trying to bond with me, and although I don't know what our past was like, I find myself trusting her. So I work up the nerve, and I ask.
"Catherine, what's the story with me and Gil?"
She smiles at an advertisement for Scrubbing Bubbles as if she's expected the question. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to answer that."
"Maybe not, but it looks like you're the only person who's willing."
She nods, then nods again, deep in thought. "I'm not sure how to explain it, really. You and Gil just have this. connection. When we're at a scene, you finish each other's sentences. You speak in shorthand, and the rest of us can barely keep up."
I'm hanging on her every word, while struggling to look bored. "Did we ever have a. thing?" It's not that I can't think of the word. I'm just not sure there is a word.
"Honestly? I don't know." She cocks her head. "But I don't think so."
"Oh." It's funny how much disappointment can enter one syllable.
"Not that you didn't want there to be," she clarifies. "Both of you. You're just. you're kind of inept at that sort of thing. I always figured you were both sitting at home every Saturday night, waiting for the other person to call."
Catherine's answer leaves me confused and glum, so I change the topic, asking her what made her become a CSI. She straightens up a little when she talks about respect, and how much she craves it, and I guiltily wonder if I should tell her that her cleavage exposure is a bit much. To my surprise, she addresses that, saying she still uses her sexuality to get things from men. She's blunt and unapologetic, and for a moment I wish I were her, without the bratty kid.
The next morning, Gil and Dr. Shedden walk in together, and I have a feeling we're not playing the game today.
"Well, Sara, I think your time here is up," Dr. Shedden says. "Your external wounds are pretty much healed, and your psychologist can keep meeting with you as an out-patient to address the memory issues."
It suddenly occurs to me that this hospital is the only place I can ever remember being. My hands are shaking, and I stick them under my blanket. "Are you sure I'm ready?"
"I think the hospital has done all it can for you," he replies.
I look at Gil, whose hands are in his pockets. Maybe he's hiding the fact that they're shaking, too. "So what do I do now?"
"Dr. Grissom has informed me that you live alone, and at this point I wouldn't advise that. With a head trauma as severe as yours, patients can have relapses, or find new stimuli overwhelming. If possible, you should find a friend or family member that you can stay with for a few weeks."
My eyes fly back to Gil, I can't help it. "You're welcome to live with me," he says in response to my unspoken question, and I bite back a triumphant smile. Maybe I'm not Sara, but the connection's still there.
He helps me pack my few belongings. I decide to leave the various flower arrangements behind, and I can tell that he's relieved. A couple of nurses hug me goodbye, and just like that, it's time to leave. I walk with a purposely wobbly step, giving me the excuse to hold onto his elbow. A short elevator ride, and we stop at the bursar. Forms and forms and forms, and Gil's mumbling something about paperwork.
"Sign here," the woman says briskly. She's irritated when she has to give me a new copy to sign, because I've written Sarah Sidle. Gil's eyes are sad, and I want to tell him that I had no way of knowing, but I know that wouldn't help anything.
He drives me to my apartment, watching me closely to see if there's a flash of recognition. There's not. It just looks like an apartment building. I slide my key in the lock and push open the door, curious to see how Sara lives. The décor surprises me.
"Am I Buddhist?" I ask, looking at a stone statue of a fat, jolly god.
Gil shrugs. "I don't think so."
The bookshelves have few framed photos: a boy with a dog, an old woman in a wheelchair, a middle-aged man with a kite. None of them look familiar.
I decide to head into my bedroom to pack, but the door I've opened leads to the bathroom. So I gather a toothbrush, deodorant, and a handful of tampons, then go through the other door into the bedroom. I find a suitcase in the closet, right where I would have put it, too. Sara's clothes are dark and subdued. No surprise there.
"Need help?" Gil calls from the living room.
"No thanks, I'm almost done." I don't want him in Sara's bedroom, thinking about her sleeping in there, scantily dressed. For I've come to a firm decision: I'm going to steal Gil away from Sara Sidle.
I'm wheeling the suitcase out the door when I spot a red leather book on the dresser. Curious, I pick it up, flipping open to a random page. Grissom smiled at me today while we processed the scene, and my heart skipped a beat. I think I'm starting to hate myself. My eyes widen and I slam the book shut, holding it to my chest. Would it be inappropriate to read such a thing? I tell myself that it might jog my memory, but in truth I'm thinking it could be a sort of Cliff's Notes into Gil. Slipping the journal into the suitcase, I walk out into the living room, where Gil's engrossed in a book on Bauhaus architecture.
He sees me and stands awkwardly. "You ready?"
I nod, giving the brightest smile I can conjure.
We get back into his car and I relax a little, relieved to have left Sara's apartment behind. Gil rolls down the windows and I stick my arm out, catching and holding the wind in my hand. It's only noon, which is terribly disappointing. It would have been much more meaningful if we were driving into the sunset together.